


Please Don’t Eat the Flowers

by Sloane



Category: Maniac Mansion, The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: ACTION GERRY, ADHD Gerry Keay, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Angst with a Happy Ending, Archivist Gerard Keay, Artist Gerry Keay, Body Horror, Brain Surgery, Canon Typical Eye Horror, Everybody Lives (With Some Notable Exceptions), F/F, Flashbacks, Gerard Keay Lives, Hurt/Comfort, It’s Eyes All the Way Down, M/M, Mary Keay's A+ Parenting, No Beta We Die Like Neglected House Plants, Prophetic Visions, Rejection Sensitivity Dysphoria, Slow Burn, They/Them Pronouns for Razor, Wildly Improper Eye Transplants
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:47:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 57,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24794887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sloane/pseuds/Sloane
Summary: Instead of retiring to open a book shop, Gerry ends up working at a flower shop run by American lesbians in London. This leads to a brush with the Distortion, who just wants to buy some lilies, the Magnus Institute finding out he’s still alive, and... well, a normal life was never really in the cards for the likes of Gerard Keay, was it?Oh, and those lesbians who run the flower shop? There’s more to them than meets the eye.(No knowledge of Maniac Mansion required; I take lots of liberties to slot it into TMA’s universe.)
Relationships: Gerard Keay/Michael Shelley, Gerard Keay/Michael | The Distortion, Razor/Wendy
Comments: 477
Kudos: 471





	1. Nothing (But Flowers)

**Author's Note:**

> When I started this Razor, Wendy, and Chuck the Plant were supposed to just background stand-in characters because I didn’t want Gerry to be running a flower shop on this own and needed names. I told myself this wouldn’t become a full blown Maniac Mansion crossover. 
> 
> Now look what happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think about those lilies a lot.

Gerry told himself after the operation that he’d go straight, relatively speaking, and lead a normal life. No more Gertrude, no more Leitners, just normal, boring, totally mundane people bullshit. Normal books, too.

If only it were that easy.

He didn’t set foot back in the UK until he was certain Gertrude was dead. How it happened, he had no idea, but Gerry found the Magnus Institute had a new Head Archivist, sure enough. Gerry only meant to hang around London long enough to confirm his suspicions, maybe drop by a few of his favorite haunts for old time’s sake, but things inevitably got complicated. 

First, he ran into Razor, a punk musician who looked out for him in the bad old days. Then, they introduced him to their wife and polar opposite, Wendy. Staying one night for dinner somehow turned into working at Wendy’s flower shop once he admitted his little brush with death back in America decimated his savings. Brain surgery wasn’t cheap, and getting a job with a background as spotty as Gerry’s wasn’t easy. Bless those lesbians for not giving a shit about his checkered past. Without them, he’d be lost. 

Thus Gerry ended up sitting at the counter of Chuck’s Plants—named after the enormous unidentified plant that sat in the corner behind him, which had its own name tag and everything—reading a battered paperback during a slow spell to try and unwind from all the mopping he just finished.

The work was certainly normal, boring, and mundane—just like he wanted—but it couldn’t possibly last. How could it, when he knew so much? The supernatural was fucking everywhere, and he had the marks to prove it. His old burn scars itched whenever he thought about it, but as long as he kept his head down he’d be fine.

The bell over the door chimed as a customer entered. Gerry was too close to the end of the page to look up from his book just yet. 

“Welcome to Chuck’s,” he said automatically, without much enthusiasm. “Let me know if I can—”

Gerry paused as a shadow fell over him. He turned to the next page in his book, made a mental note of the page number, immediately forgot that number, and looked up.

The lone customer was very tall, with long curly blond hair that fell around his shoulders. His age was hard to discern, as were a lot of the individual details about his features. The word ‘unremarkable’ wedged itself in Gerry’s mind, made it harder to get any further, but in any case, he was staring.

“—help,” Gerry finished, feeling like someone had finally pushed the play button on his canned speech. He had no idea how much time had passed in between the pause. It felt like a full minute, maybe more, and the customer just stood there smiling and looking through him the entire time.

“Good book?” the customer asked, leaning closer. Too close. His eyes were very blue and strange in a way that Gerry’s mind refused to process. Every time he got close, he forgot what he was thinking.

Right. The book.

“Cat’s Cradle,” Gerry said as if that was all the explanation needed. When the title sparked no flicker of recognition, he added, “It’s about the end of the world, but that’s maybe oversimplifying it a bit.”

“Oh,” the customer leaned back. “How cheerful.”

“That’s me,” Gerry said dryly. “All lollipops and rainbows. Now, what can I help you with today?”

“I’d like some flowers.”

Gerry bit back the ‘obviously’ he wanted to say and forced himself to smile. “What’s the occasion?”

“Does there necessarily have to be one?”

“Er, no, not really,” Gerry said, trying to keep up the paper-thin professional front. His position wasn’t in any danger, but he didn’t need to make the shop’s online reviews any worse. “So it’s not for a wedding, funeral, or anything like that?”

“No, not just yet.”

“How about you just tell me what sort of flowers you want?”

“Can you show me what you’ve got?”

Gerry stared at the customer, trying to ascertain if he was flirting with him, fucking with him, or what. The customer stared back guilelessly, no help at all.

“O—kay,” Gerry said, dragging out the space between the syllables. He stashed his book under the register. “Follow me. I’m Gerard, by the way.”

“Yes, I saw the tag.” The customer’s odd eyes roved over him. “You can call me Michael. The apron goes quite nicely with the rest of your outfit, I must say.”

It didn’t. The color not only went against Gerry’s all-black aesthetic, but he objected to the live-laugh-love looking font Wendy used for the shop logo on general graphic design principle as well. He kept offering to revamp it, but Wendy saw no reason to change, and Razor wasn’t about to go against their darling wife. The shop was solely Wendy’s domain, Razor said, and that was that.

“Thanks.” Gerry put as much ‘fuck you, too’ into his tone as he could muster before leading Michael toward the display vases.

Gerry spotted Michael idly stroke one of the daisies in passing as he led him around the central display, and as Gerry circled to the lilies, he noted a broken daisy stem lying on the floor. He just cleaned the damn shop top to bottom, so it had to be new, yet Michael had barely touched it. Gerry shook his head, rationalizing it as daisies being delicate, and Michael smiled.

“I think I’ll just take the lilies.”

“Great,” Gerry said, catching up to Michael at the far end of the display. “How many would you like—and what colors?”

“A dozen,” Michael said. “Red and orange, six each.”

Gerry arched a pierced eyebrow. “Cool. Never really thought about that combination before. It’ll look kind of like a flaming torch, won’t it?”

Michael’s fixed smile was unnerving. “She always did have a fondness for setting fires.”

“What?”

“I said she liked sitting by fires.” Gerry could swear that wasn’t what Michael said before, but he was beginning to doubt himself. This feeling was familiar. Maybe the tumor was coming back on him. “She was quite old, you see.”

“So, this person is dead, then?”

Gerry mentally kicked himself, remembering it was more polite to say ‘passed on’ or something similarly toothless as per Wendy’s instructions.

“Oh, yes.” Michael nodded cheerfully, sending his curls bobbing. “Quite dead.”

“Traditionally, people get white lilies for memorials.”

Michael scoffed. “That’s boring.”

“I don’t know if you’re aware,” Gerry said, folding his arms. “But orange lilies would also suggest hatred, too.”

“Yes, exactly.” Michael's smile turned to an even more unsettling grin. “So tell me, florist, what are red lilies for?”

Gerry shrugged. “I’m not quite that familiar with flower language, sorry. I just know orange.”

“High-minded ideals.” Michael tutted. “It’s the perfect memorial bouquet, trust me.”

“Who exactly is this for, again?”

“It hardly matters,” Michael said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “The chances of you also knowing her are infinitesimal, and besides—“ he laughed like it was cause for celebration. It sounded wrong, but Gerry couldn’t place why. “She’s deceased, as I said.”

“Right.” Gerry was getting a nasty headache. “I’ll have that put together for you in a moment. If you’ll just wait here?”

Once he got into the back room, Gerry felt the fog lifting from his mind, not to mention the headache. Everything clicked as he remembered what he should have recognized from the beginning. Gerry whispered a string of very creative and colorful curses as he picked up the pruning shears. He thought about turning right back around and charging the goddamn Spiral avatar with them, but what good would that do? 

Probably nothing. 

No, definitely nothing.

Gerry clicked his tongue piercing against the roof of his mouth in consternation. What _could_ he do, then?

His fucking job. No more, no less. For now, anyway.

Gerry gathered the red and orange lilies together as he replayed the conversation in his mind. The phrase ‘she always did have a fondness for setting fires’ stuck in his mind in the place of ‘unremarkable’ as he wrapped up the bouquet. It really did look like a torch.

He thought about Gertrude for the first time in ages. He remembered watching as she tossed a lit match on a narrow line of petrol—a look of grim satisfaction on her face as the flames raced up the trail to the old shack where a Corruption hive was holed up. They watched it burn together, neither saying a word. 

Gerry took a shaky breath and wiped his eyes. He had the most fucked up excuses for fond memories. He grabbed the finished bouquet off the table and marched back out front.

Michael was staring out the storefront window while standing well back from it—watching something or someone outside while taking care not to be seen.

Gerry cleared his throat and met the creature’s smile of greeting with a scowl. It was impossible not to brush fingers as he handed over the bouquet, mainly because he was now aware that Michael’s were far longer than they appeared. That was how it clipped the damn daisy.

“Thanks,” it said. “How much do I owe you?”

“Just take it,” Gerry said. “And get out.”

“Ah.” Michael’s smile widened. “So the game is up. I’m honestly disappointed you were so easy to influence. You’re slipping, florist.”

“ _Honestly?_ ” Gerry sneered. “Please. That’s a joke coming from you. And it’s not like I was expecting the Spiral to want flowers.”

“The Distortion,” Michael corrected him.

“What-the-fuck-ever.” Gerry rolled his eyes. “Just go.”

Michael sniffed the lilies before nodding his thanks and turning to leave. Gerry seethed with anger at letting himself get taken in like a fucking know-nothing civilian. 

To be fair, it was a damn good disguise. Only the warped reflection in the glass gave Michael away, and Gerry didn’t think to look until he watched it leave. He let it get as far as the exit before calling out.

It paused in the open door, the bell overhead still swaying, and turned to look at him curiously.

“I have to know,” Gerry said. “Do you _really_ carry a torch for Gertrude Robinson?”

It was an incredibly stupid thing to ask. Gerry was willing to blame it on the portion of his brain they had to cut away to get the tumor out, but he was gratified to see Michael’s eyes go wide in surprise and recognition—then narrow in anger.

“No.” The smile it gave him that final time was particularly chilling. “My sole regret is that I didn’t kill her myself.” It languidly waved goodbye with the bouquet. “Thanks again for the lilies, florist. I owe you.”

“That’s okay.”

“Oh, no, I _insist_.”

The bell jingled faintly as the door slid closed. 

“Fuck.” Gerry sighed and smacked his forehead. “You just had to poke the badger, didn’t you?”

Of course he did. Because he was bored.

And no good deed went unpunished—like giving the goddamn Distortion free flowers. 

The bell barely had any time to rest before a frazzled looking woman entered.

“Was there just a man in here?” she demanded. “Tall? Blond hair?”

Gerry stared at her blankly. So that was why Michael was standing back from the window. That, and it was trying to avoid letting Gerry see its warped reflection too soon.

“You just missed him,” Gerry said. “I’m surprised you didn’t pass each other on the street.”

He saw the lanyard hanging from the woman’s neck. The Magnus Institute had updated its logo slightly, making the owl more streamlined and stylized. Gerry kind of liked it despite himself. The woman’s name was Sasha James. That was all he got before she mistook Gerry staring at her badge for staring at her tits.

“Hey!” She snapped her fingers. “Eyes up here, Robert Smith.”

Gerry scoffed. “Is my hair really that bad?”

“Well, you could definitely stand to touch the roots up.” Sasha shook her head. “What am I saying?! Look, just tell me if you noticed anything odd about that man, please!”

“Odd compared to what exactly?”

Sasha blinked, registering his features for the first time. Her eyes went wide. It wasn’t just the tattoos or the burns. She recognized him as _Gerard Keay_ once she put all the pieces together. Gerry silently cursed. So much for keeping the Institute from finding out about him. 

“Look, are you going to buy something or what?” Gerry put on his best fake smile. “Your friend bought lilies if you’re interested.”

“No, thanks.” Sasha backed away slowly toward the door, nearly stumbling into the succulents along the way. “Sorry to bother you.”

“Double fuck,” Gerry said as the door slid closed once more. His reputation as an acquitted murderer apparently preceded him. Gerry wondered precisely how many statements involving him the Archives had on file. 

Too many, that was for damn sure. 

Gerry checked his watch. He managed to fuck up avoiding the Fears and living in obscurity in the span of less than an hour, and he still had the better part of his shift to finish.

Plenty of time to wonder how the hell Michael intended to repay him.

Wonder, not worry.

Because next time Gerry would be on guard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And Gerry’s also brushing up on flower language because these cliches are fun, damn it.


	2. Spiders (Not Spider Lilies, Just Spiders)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Archivist intrudes—and doesn’t even buy anything!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Web complicates things as usual.

The next day marked a return to business as usual, if only because there were always new shipments of flowers to deal with early in the morning. Razor was helping Gerry shift the boxes off the truck, and spotted his book on flower language on the table before Gerry remembered he left it out from last night.

“This again?” They laughed and picked the book up, lightly bopping Gerry on the head with it. “You know Wendy hates this stuff. Unless a Victorian time traveler stumbles in, it’s not gonna help any, Ger. Plus the last thing we need is customers worrying the meaning of the filler sends a mixed message.”

“It’s just for fun,” Gerry insisted, snatching the book back. “A customer asked me about something yesterday and I didn’t know what to say, so I figured I’d brush up... y’know, just in case they come back.”

“Oh, really.” Razor leaned against the table and folded their tattooed arms, grinning. “Maybe you _did_ get a Victorian time traveler.”

“Maybe.” Gerry stashed the book atop his growing pile of totally normal paperbacks to kill time with during store hours. “Or just an old fashioned romantic type.”

It wasn’t as though he could tell Razor he was preparing for a potential battle of wits with an avatar of an eldritch fear entity. There was no telling how old any given avatar could actually be, so for all he knew Michael really _was_ from Victorian times.

Razor laughed. “Cute. Now help me de-thorn these roses, wouldja?”

Gerry groaned. That was by far his least favorite part of working for a florist. He liked putting together bouquets, Wendy even said he had a natural sense of composition, but there was a lot of work involved to get their most popular flowers presentable. The Pink Floyd roses were the worst. Gerry didn’t have anything against the band or that particularly shade of pink until he cut himself on the thorns one too many times. The damn things were like knives—or fangs. After so much blood loss, he could no longer stand anything associated with the roses. But of course they were popular, so there was no escape.

Gerry counted it as a small victory that the morning’s preparations required no dip into the first aid kit, but once everything was swept up and Razor headed off to teach their first piano lesson of the morning, he couldn’t shake the feeling of foreboding hanging over him. Gerry tried to distract himself by gathering up their older stock and throwing it together into sale bouquets. Wendy was working the front, so if he really wanted he could ditch work entirely to chase the nagging feeling out into the streets, but he hated to think it could be the Eye trying to nudge him towards something after all this time. He focused on the flowers.

The tattoos on his knuckles stared impassively at nothing as he wrapped the last of the discount bouquets. The flesh around them was an untouched oasis amongst the burn scars, an ever present reminder that Beholding played a part in his survival—up to a point. It didn’t help much with the brain tumor. Gerry grit his teeth and grabbed the tray of bouquets.

The sound of voices in the main shop made him pause. There were thick plastic curtains instead of a proper door, so Gerry hid in the shadow of the threshold as Wendy spoke.

“If you’re looking for my partner Razor, they just stepped out,” she said. “I’m afraid they’re not taking any new students at the moment, either.”

“No, that’s not the employee I mean,” a man said. “I’m talking about Gerard Keay.”

Gerry slipped around the corner just enough to get a look at the man asking about him.

The man looked about Gerry’s age, maybe a little younger, with sharp features and piercing eyes. He had a severe academic aesthetic, right down to the tweed jacket and horn rimmed glasses. The phrase ‘trying too hard’ came to mind. A leather messenger bag was slung over the man’s shoulder shoulder, and clipped to his lapel was a Magnus Institute ID badge. Gerry swore under his breath.

Gerry could only see Wendy’s back, but her posture was stiff. She was probably trying her best to look intimidating, but she was a petite lady in her mid-forties wearing a pink cashmere sweater and black leggings under her shop apron. Intimidating didn’t exactly come easy to someone like Wendy. Razor and their side cut cherry red hair and full sleeve tattoos were another story—they were more on par with Gerry, who’d still rather not reveal himself unless absolutely necessary.

“I think you know exactly who I mean,” the man said, sounding annoyed. His voice took on a different, more commanding quality as he continued. “ _Now would you please just tell me if he works here or not?”_

“Yes,” Wendy answered automatically. “He’s in the back.”

Gerry sighed heavily. He knew she couldn’t help it.

So that would be the new Archivist, then. Figured he’d come down to investigate personally after Sasha popped in, though Gerry didn’t think it would be quite so soon. That would explain his bad feeling all morning. Gerry took a breath, squared his shoulders, and pushed his way out front with the tray of flowers.

“Hey, Wendy,” he said brightly, like he hadn’t just been eavesdropping. “I threw together some of the older flowers into a few arrangements. You want me to price these or what?”

He saw the look of confusion flicker across Wendy’s face turn to fear as she realized how easily she gave him up. Gerry kept smiling. He held the tray up, the offer of escape open.

“I’ll do it,” she said, hurrying over—if only to get away from the Archivist. “By the way, um—” she glanced back at the Archivist.

“Jon,” he said

“Yes, Jon here was just asking about you.”

“It’s cool,” Gerry said, putting his hands in his pockets. “I was expecting him to drop by sooner or later.”

“Oh, good.”

As Wendy relaxed, Jon tensed

Gerry nodded toward the door. “So, you wanted to talk?”

“Er, yes...” Jon looked like he was regretting everything. Good.

“Come on, then.” 

Gerry returned to the back room. He didn’t care to look and see if Jon was following. If he came along, so be it. If he changed his mind and bolted, even better.

Jon followed.

Gerry had half a mind to tackle Jon and pin him to the work table, but Wendy was in the next room, still shaken from their brief conversation. Besides, there wasn’t much use perpetuating the notion that he was Gerard Keay, homicidal maniac—as opposed to Gerry Keay, fed-up florist. The Institute would only keep harassing him if they believed the former.

It was enough that Jon looked terrified, like the space used to receive flowers and work them into arrangements was some kind of torture chamber. It depended on the time of year and the occasion, really. Weddings were the worst.

“Okay, first of all?” Gerry clapped his hands together, startling Jon. “I’d appreciate it _immensely_ if you didn’t compel me or my friends in the future, just as a matter of courtesy.”

Jon looked confused. “I’m sorry, _compel?”_

Gerry stared at him. Jon stared back. His utter confusion was genuine. 

Gerry laughed helplessly. “You honestly don’t know.”

Jon scowled. “Know what?”

He put just enough force behind it that Gerry couldn’t hide the truth from him. 

“That you can know anything you desire.”

Damn, he was out of practice fighting it, but not even Gertrude was crass enough to compel him—most of the time, anyway. At least Gerry didn’t blab too much. There wasn’t a lot of force behind the compulsion, which was slightly reassuring. He doubted Jon had the power to wring a full statement out of anyone, let alone him. Not yet.

“See there?” Gerry scowled right back at Jon. “You did it again. You need to learn to phrase your sentences carefully. Questions are dangerous.”

“Oh, please.” Jon gave him a petulant look. “It’s my _job_ to ask questions.”

“As the Archivist, right?” Gerry hopped up to sit on the work table. “Congrats on that. You’ve got big sensible shoes to fill.”

“Ah, yes.” Jon’s expression soured even more, to the point he looked like he just licked a lemon. “The late, great Gertrude Robinson.”

Gerry smirked. “Not a fan?”

“To say the very least.”

Gerry eyed Jon thoughtfully. Exactly how little did he know? What did he think he was doing for the Institute? Why did he seek Gerry out if he thought he was a matricidal book burning maniac with a bad dye job? And that was indeed what he thought, Gerry _knew_ it. 

He hated that he knew it. 

Gerry felt like just being in close proximity to the Archivist was reawakening his own ability to glean such things after so many years spent trying to keep his eyes shut to the wider world.

A piercing scream from out front made them both jump.

“Gerry!” Wendy yelled. “Help! Spiders!”

Gerry groaned. Bugs got in the flowers sometimes, spiders included, but the timing was incredibly suspect. Still, Wendy was deathly afraid of _all_ insects, and it was his job to deal with them. He glanced to Jon, who’d gone pale at the very prospect of spiders.

“Duty calls,” Gerry said. “Stay here.”

“Wait!” Jon cried. “What if there are more back here?”

Gerry rifled through his stack of books and pulled out ‘Anansi Boys’ as a bad joke. He held it out to Jon, who hesitated to accept.

“Not a Leitner.” Gerry grinned. “I promise.”

Jon took the book. “What am I supposed to do with it, then?”

“Crush bugs,” Gerry said, and waved as he rushed off to Wendy’s aid. “Or read it while I’m gone. Whichever!”

Gerry wasn’t terribly surprised to find the spiders had scattered back into hiding by the time he got out front, but Wendy wouldn’t calm down until he produced a corpse. He pulled the tables apart, ducking underneath them to find there were cobwebs strung beneath the legs. He was going to have to be much more thorough cleaning from then on out.

“Do you see anything?” Wendy asked anxiously.

“Hang on.” Gerry held an arm out. “Hand me a broom.”

Wendy hurried to comply. Gerry swept out a long dead spider from beneath the tables. Whatever Wendy saw was hiding somewhere else, so that would have to do for the time being.

“Got one.”

Wendy cringed away as he held up the broom in triumph.

“There were more,” she said. “At least I think...?”

He had no doubts, but their work was already done. “Want me to bawl out our supplier?”

“No.” Wendy clenched her fists. “I’ll do it. What if a customer had seen—? _Ugh!”_

Gerry nodded sympathetically and picked the cobwebs off the broom bristles. “Give ‘em hell, Wen.”

At least that would keep her distracted. As Wendy marched off to make an angry phone call from her office, Jon emerged from the back clutching the paperback Gerry gave him like a talisman.

“I should really get going,” Jon said. “I’ll be late for work if I don’t.”

“I figured you’d say something like that.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Here.” Gerry took the book from Jon and, after a bit of rooting around for a pen, wrote his mobile number down on the first page. He didn’t realize it was the one with the drawing of the spider missing a leg until he tore it out and Jon grimaced at the sight.

“Not much for spiders, huh?”

Jon shook his head.

“Smart,” Gerry said. “But you can just tear off the bit with my number if it’s easier.”

“It will help me to remember,” Jon said dryly before tucking the page away in his pocket. Sure enough, Gerry hadn’t written his name with the number.

“Don’t hesitate to call me if you need advice,” Gerry said. “Or help.”

Jon stared at him as if seeing him for the first time, just like his assistant before him. Gerry knew how he looked. Dressed all in black, burn scars up to his neck, except where the eye tattoos on his throat and joints were mysteriously spared, as if the fire couldn’t touch them—which was exactly the case. It was creepy. Jon must have known at least a few stories from Gerry’s past, maybe even the ones about his burns or his mother’s skinning.

All Jon asked was, “Why a florist?”

Gerry rolled his eyes. “Why not?”

And those were the last words they exchanged for weeks.

At least Gerry could say he tried. He wasn’t about to go beating down the Institute’s door trying to save Jon from himself, not when Elias was still in charge.

Gerry wondered if Elias even knew he was alive. Probably.

But didn’t really care to find out for certain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It would really help if Jon trusted Gerry, but alas.


	3. Fake (Flowers and More)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael repays its debt and things get complicated.
> 
> (Just realized this probably counts as graphic violence so tags updated accordingly! Here I go earning that M rating!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fight scenes and tender moments go together like ketchup and sugar (no, really, ketchup has sugar in it).
> 
> cw: violence, stranger creepiness

Ever since Michael and his damn lilies, Gerry spent his days off relearning his real craft. He still had a bunch of silk flowers at home for the purposes of practicing before working on the real thing, but also laid out in his kitchen was a heavy duty first aid kit in case his _other_ practice runs went south. 

He tried not to look hard for signs of trouble. He didn’t want to get roped into a full blown case when the Institute would probably pick up on it sooner or later. Then again, Jon was clueless. It wasn’t like with Gertrude, where Gerry could blink and suddenly she was walking away from a burning building and chiding him for daydreaming. He felt bad for the guy, but he sure as hell didn’t want to babysit.

So Gerry decided to call what he was doing shaking off the dust. Remember what to look out for, learn new signs that emerged while he was effectively retired, and try not to get in too deep. Once he felt confident in his own ability again, he might even try a book hunt. God knows he barely put a dent in Jurgen Leitner’s shitty fucking library over the years. Gerry got annoyed just thinking about it.

He was nearly done for the night when he stumbled upon a strange looking busker in a tube station. The couple watching him were way more entranced than his mediocre violin skills warranted. When the busker started to move, still playing, the couple followed—their eyes unfocused.

Gerry picked up a crushed soda can discarded just shy of the bin and threw it at the busker, hitting him in the hand and ruining his insidious little performance.

“Oi!” Gerry shouted at the couple. “Move it!”

They looked around in confusion, half expecting to see a cop moving them along, but once they noticed the time they were just as eager to be on their way—the busker and his enchanting violin music forgotten.

His audience gone, the busker glared at Gerry, who grinned and shrugged as the train pulled up.

“Sorry, mate,” he said, backing away towards the open doors. “Hand slipped.”

The busker was still glaring at him through the windows as the train pulled away. There was something off about his eyes, but that didn’t necessarily mean he was with the Stranger. Luring victims with music was a popular tactic utilized by several Fears. All that mattered was it was foiled.

Gerry sat down, glad to be the only one in the car that late, but it didn’t last long. A pink-haired girl wearing headphones entered from the next car, gave him a wary once over, and sat as far away as possible. Gerry was used to that reaction. Why she didn’t turn right back around when she saw him, he had no idea—unless the last car was full of even creepier looking guys.

Gerry checked his mobile. Nearly time for the bars to wash a flood of drunks out into the streets. His goal was to beat the rush. The lights in the car flickered as he slipped his mobile back into his coat. The pink-haired girl was suddenly sitting directly across from him. Gerry just stared as she smiled eerily and plucked her headphones out.

“Texting friends?” She tilted her head at an angle.

“No.” Gerry shoved his hands into his pockets.

“Do you even _have_ friends?” The girl’s soft, breathy voice and wide, unblinking stare reminded Gerry of something he saw on YouTube once. That was an act to unnerve viewers and get more subscriptions. Gerry was staring down the genuine article.

“Sure,” Gerry said. “Loads.” He curled his fingers around the switchblade that was currently his best friend. Getting to the knife in his boot would require bending down.

“ _My_ friend just texted me.” The girl’s doll-like face pulled into a pout as exaggerated as the emphasis she put on certain words. “He said you were _rude_.”

“Sorry,” Gerry said, tightening his grip on the switchblade. “I’ll try to offer constructive criticism next time.”

“All we’re trying to do is make new friends,” the girl said, her face stuck in that pout. “Is that so _bad?_ ”

“Yeah...” Gerry laughed. “It is when you ‘make’ them.”

The doll dropped its flimsy pretense of humanity and pounced, moving with inhuman speed and grace. Gerry flicked the blade out, catching it as it landed. He dug the blade in deep and pulled down hard, spilling sawdust everywhere as the doll’s stuffing ruptured from the cut.

“Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it,” the doll cooed, its face uncomfortably close. It was going to be one of _those_ fights.

Gerry head-butted it. He grinned at the satisfying crack of breaking porcelain. The doll shrieked and staggered back, its hand going to its face. A few pieces around its eye fell off as it lowered its hand, leaving spiderweb cracks across the rest of its formerly pristine face.

Gerry traded the switchblade for the knife in his boot as he stood up. It glinted under the car’s fluorescent lights as he brandished it towards the doll. 

“You’re not really built for fighting, are you, dolly?”

The doll grinned, causing even more of its pretty face to flake away. It reached down and yanked off its left forearm, revealing the sharp blade that made up part of its skeleton. The sawdust that filled its torso had largely drained away, allowing it to fold in on itself completely as it lunged for Gerry. He barely avoided getting skewered by jumping back on the seats.

Him and his big mouth.

Fighting in a moving train car wasn’t easy, and Gerry was sorely out of practice dealing with so much as opponents who moved like normal people. The doll cackled as as folded backwards to avoid his slash, then twisted around to catch him in the leg with its knife arm. Gerry hissed in pain and braced himself against the nearest pole, kicking out with his uninjured leg as it attempted to skitter around him. The rest of the doll’s face came away, leaving nothing but a grotesque skeletal wireframe of eyes and teeth. 

“I _liked_ that face!” It hissed at him.

“I’m sure you’ll get another,” Gerry said dryly.

“Maybe I’ll take _yours!”_ The doll lunged as it said it.

Gerry slid down the pole. Metal clanged against metal as the doll’s knife arm collided against it. Brakes squealed as the train slowly came to a halt at the next station. Gerry was in an awkward position on the floor, his leg burning from the cut the doll had landed, but he had to make a run for it. 

Gerry hissed in pain as he stood. The doll grabbed him, trying to drag him back down. He punched it. The doll’s knife raked across his arm but for once the burns on his arm did him a favor—it barely scratched the mottled pink scar tissue tear happened to be thicker there. No such luck with the spot on his leg, given some places suffered in the fire worse than others.

The doll giggled and scrabbled on to his back. “Your skin is _terrible_ ,” it cooed while Gerry tried to claw it off with one hand and stab it with the other. “Are these burns second degree? Third? Second and a half? No matter, I think I’ll just take your head and leave the rest!”

The doors slid open with a familiar tone. Gerry bolted without looking, ignoring the burning in his leg. He finally resorted to pulling at his entire coat and throwing the doll off with it. The doll shrieked as it was suddenly enveloped in darkness and thrown to the floor.

Gerry panted heavily. He sustained a few more superficial cuts tussling with the damn thing, but the worst was over. All that was left was to...

Gerry froze.

He wasn’t on the station platform. He was in a long hallway with eye-searing decor that stretched so far it warped and faded as it curled off into the distance. Gerry glanced over his shoulder. There was no way out, just more hallway. The pictures on the wall either showed yet more hallways with people sitting huddled hopelessly on the floor, or mirrors with twisted reflections.

Gerry looked back to the doll, who at last tore free of his coat.

“ _Ha!”_ It sprang to its feet. “Don’t think you’ve won, because my _friends_ are... waiting... and...” it trailed off into stunned silence as it too realized they were not at the station where an ambush was lying in wait.

Echoing laughter filled the air.

“Poor little lost dolly,” a familiar voice said. “I’m afraid your friends can’t help you here.”

The lights in the hall flickered, and suddenly Michael was right behind the doll. The fears certainly loved that trick—not so much when it was used against them. 

“No one can.”

The doll shrieked as very long, sharp fingers curled around it.

Michael had abandoned all pretense of humanity within its own domain. What Gerry saw was the warped thing he had seen reflected in the shop window—a grotesque distortion of a human figure, with hands nearly as long as it was tall. Its mass of curly blond hair drifted lazily around it as if it were underwater, and like the rest of its form there was far to much of it to go around. Gerry stared in a mix of awe and fear as Michael slowly ground the doll between its hands, its expression flickering like an advertising billboard glitching between different images—boredom, amusement, anger, and something else that was too corrupted for Gerry to read. The only constant was its slowly spiraling eyes.

Finally, Michael wiped its hands. A fine white power fell to the carpet at its feet. Michael stepped through it, not caring it was tracking the doll’s pasty remains through the already nasty carpet, and picked up Gerry’s ruined coat.

Gerry gaped as Michael wiggled its fingers through the holes the doll made in the black fabric.

“Why did you help me?”

Michael chuckled. It was short, barely long enough to echo or make Gerry’s head hurt. “I owed you, didn’t I?”

Gerry scowled. “My life is worth a lot more than a bouquet of lilies.”

“Is it?” Michael’s smile curled in on itself again and again. “Human life is rather cheap, I’ve found.”

“Are you going to let me go?”

Michael tilted its head. The thoughtful hum it murmured rattled Gerry’s teeth and made his eyes water as it dragged on and on.

“Very well,” it said. _“For now_.”

It stepped back, revealing a door Gerry knew would lead to the safety of his flat.

“But I’m keeping your coat.”

“Whatever.” Gerry shrugged. “It’s ruined, anyway.”

Michael laughed and tossed the coat aside, where it vanished into thin air. Gerry stared at the door it had made for him. Michael was standing right next to it. Leaving would mean walking forward all of two paces, which would mean testing the worst of his injuries. Michael gazed at him expectantly, still smiling. Gerry grit his teeth. Showing weakness in front of it was probably a bad idea, but he still had his knife. Gerry stepped forward.

Pain flared in his leg. Gerry stumbled and lost his grip on his knife. It clattered out of sight.

And Gerry tripped and fell face first into Michael. He briefly saw a riot of mind-bending shapes and colors before being pulled back. Michael’s laughter gave him even more of a headache before it trailed off into an amused sigh.

“My,” it said. “You really _are_ a mess, aren’t you?”

“It’s not that bad,” Gerry insisted. “Just a few scrapes.”

Michael’s renewed laughter made him wince.

“Oh, seeker,” it sighed. “You should know better than to lie to me.”

It opened the door itself and guided Gerry into his own flat. Its form compressed as they stepped out into the kitchen—in what Gerry realized was the Distortion’s twisted version of taking off its shoes in someone’s house. The next time Gerry looked up at it, Michael was wearing the same mundane illusion it had worn in the flower shop. He could still feel its long fingers curled around him as it helped him into a kitchen chair, but it looked perfectly normal again.

“Never mind the flowers,” Gerry said, indicating all the fake flowers scattered all over the kitchen table. “They’re for practice.”

“You should be practicing more with knives,” Michael said, handing Gerry’s back to him before turning to the first aid kit on counter. This wasn’t the first time Gerry had gotten hurt while back on the streets, but it was the worst to date. Gerry stared at the combat knife in bemusement, surprised Michael had given it back. Did it trust him not to attack, or was it confident that it wouldn’t matter if he tried? Probably the latter. Gerry laid the knife next to a half-assembled flower crown on the table and sighed. He hadn’t felt this useless in a long time.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Gerry asked as Michael pulled a chair around for the first aid kit and sat down next to him.

Michael grinned unpleasantly. “You’re just going to have to trust me. Now, take off your boots and roll up your pant leg.”

Gerry glared at it.

“ _Please_ ,” Michael added, the antiseptic already in one hand.

Gerry grumbled and did as instructed. He hated that he had to stretch his leg across Michael’s lap for examination, but there was no making the situation any less awkward no matter what he did.

“Pity the scar tissue isn’t as thick here,” Michael said, poking at his burnt leg.

“Yeah.” Gerry folded his arms. “If only those cultists could have burnt me just a _little_ bit more, I’d be golden.”

“You’ll need stitches,” Michael said. “Just for this one cut.” It started to rifle through the first aid kit. Gerry had everything needed for that and more, but he still stared at it in disbelief. It was not only talkative, it was being direct and helpful.

Michael’s hair fell into its face as it picked out the necessary materials. It looked up at him, all innocence. “What?”

“This can’t be fucking happening,” Gerry said.

Michael smirked. “Maybe that’s why I’m doing it.”

“So it’s not so much that you’re helping, it’s because the very idea of you helping fucks with my head?”

“And it’s _delicious_.” Michael threaded the needle on the first try. “But as I said, your life is cheap, so I still owe you.”

“Is that really the r—” Gerry hissed in pain as Michael set about sewing the wound shut. Right. Bad time to ask pressing questions, especially when getting through the skin of Gerry’s leg took extra effort. Michael worked quickly, making practiced stitches that looked virtually identical to anything one might have received from A&E. Gerry was impressed.

“Since when does the Distortion know how to make such neat stitches?”

“You’d do well to stop asking so many questions, seeker,” Michael said, an edge to its tone. “I’m not quite finished.”

But the other cuts were superficial, easily treated with just some antiseptic and plaster. Gerry let it deal with them just to watch how its fingers moved. The illusion slipped while it worked, so its long fingers were visible as they flitted through his supplies and brushed over Gerry’s wounds. For a monster notorious for driving people insane, it was surprisingly delicate.

Since Gerry had his hands free the entire time—and because he could still keep an eye on Michael while doing it—Gerry went back to work on the half-completed flower crown. He and Michael finished at around the same time, so as Michael applied the last bandage, Gerry let the flower crown fall on Michael’s head.

Sometimes Gerry thought he had a death wish. The tumor should have been his cue to lay off, play it safe, but he just couldn’t help himself.

Michael looked up at him in confusion. It reached up and took the crown off, careful of its sharp fingers.

Gerry smiled.

“They’re fake,” he said. “But you’d probably like that, right? It Is Not What It Is.”

“You—” Michael stared at Gerry, its illusion flickering until Gerry was suddenly looking at the real Distortion bent awkwardly over him, the flower crown dwarfed in its massive hands. It took it a moment to find its voice again, and even then it sounded far away. “—are very thoughtful, seeker.”

Gerry worried he might have broken it.

“Why seeker?” he asked. “What happened to florist?”

Michael blinked. Or rather, its entire face blinked back into focus. It grinned, turning the flower crown round and round in its hands. “Because you took up the mantle once more, _seeker.”_

“You could just do like all my friends do and call me Gerry.”

There was a horrific noise halfway between a record scratch and microphone feedback. Gerry winced and looked away. He opened one eye as tiny bits of confetti rained down on him. He held his hand out. It was the shredded remains of the flower crown.

“N-names are hard,” Michael stammered, actually stammered. It wasn’t a digital effect inexplicably applied to its voice like Gerry had come to expect. Michael rose, its head brushing the ceiling. Its face was hidden in shadow.

“You should rest,” it said.

The door Michael entered through was still there, waiting. It paused halfway over the threshold.

“And do be more careful from now on,” it said. “The only one who has any right to kill you is _me_.”

The door slammed. In its place was Gerry’s old second-hand fridge, rattling slightly in its wake. Gerry’s perfectly dressed wounds ached, and still he wondered where the hell Michael learned how to do that.

The answers he sought weren’t anywhere he wanted to go looking, so Gerry cleaned up to kitchen, took a few pain killers, and went to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What are feelings, anyway? Michael just doesn’t know.
> 
> Fanart for this chapter!
> 
> By [rysttle on tumblr](https://rysttle.tumblr.com/post/622822431695011840/um-so-statement-of-ry-regarding-the-gerrymichael)
> 
> By [damiendimensions on tumblr](https://damiendimensions.tumblr.com/post/622854412211306496/please-dont-eat-the-flowers-sloane-the-magnus)
> 
> By [ladyspottedray on tumblr](https://ladyspottedray.tumblr.com/post/624320619846270976/a-distortion-in-a-flower-crown-partially-inspired)


	4. Secret (Garden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More tender moments and death threats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the bullshit I’m currently on so here’s another chapter.

The wounds healed, leaving very little trace amongst Gerry’s old scars, and life resumed in what he called the new normal.

Gerry worked at the flower shop, stayed over for dinner with Razor and Wendy occasionally, and practiced fighting. He got Razor into it under pretense of self-defense training, and was a little surprised they needed very little instruction on the basics. He suspected they might know a thing or two about knives as well, but he didn’t want to have that conversation—either about why he needed practice or why they already knew how to handle one.

“I don’t suppose you know what their deal is,” he asked Chuck the plant at work one day. The plant—he still had no idea if it was a weird ficus or what, but it grew all the way to the ceiling—was silent, of course.

Instead of reading books during slow periods, Gerry started checking the internet for listings of odd collectors editions. Nothing promising turned up, though he was tempted to put a bid on a supposedly haunted Harry Potter paperback just for a laugh. It was just as well he found nothing real. Gerry didn’t have Gertrude to float him Institute money for genuine articles, though he did feel a pang of something that felt suspiciously like nostalgia when he spotted her old username on a long defunct auction. grbookworm1818 was such an old lady username, and he told Gertrude as much, but she just turned around and made fun of him for putting 451 in his.

Gerry told himself he didn’t miss _Gertrude_ , he missed having someone to talk to who understood things—someone he didn’t have to lie to protect.

He cleared the browser history and closed all the windows, revealing the shop computer’s desktop wallpaper of a cat curled up amidst a field of flowers. It was the closest they could get to a shop cat when a real one would be a threat to—and in some cases threatened by—all the plants. Wendy said Chuck was close enough, but Gerry didn’t see how when he didn’t do anything besides silently process oxygen.

The bell over the door chimed. Gerry started to go into the usual spiel, and froze when he saw it was Michael—disguised as usual in public, but the situation was made worse by Wendy’s presence in the back. Gerry couldn’t just close up to deal with it, nor did he want her in any way involved.

“What do you want?” Gerry hissed in a whisper.

“That’s a very broad question,” Michael said blithely. “What does anyone _want_ , really? Entire books have been written on the subject...”

Gerry rolled his eyes. “I mean why are you—” he stopped before he stumbling into another easily twisted metaphysical conundrum. “—in this flower shop again.”

That earned him a faint smile of approval that Gerry wasn’t sure he wanted out of the Distortion. “I came to talk to _you_ , seeker.”

Gerry sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. There was just no avoiding it, then.

“Hey, Wendy,” he called, taking off his apron and draping it over Chuck the plant. “Could you watch the front for a few? I need a break.”

Wendy poked her head out. Gerry never asked for extra breaks—not since he stopped smoking, so her look of suspicion turned to pleasant surprise when she saw Michael.

“Of course!” Wendy gushed as she shuffled out front. “But first, who’s your friend?”

“Not a friend,” Michael interjected. “Just a claimant.”

It looked horribly smug at Wendy’s rightful confusion over that. Gerry already felt like a mortified teenager when Wendy started beaming at the sight of the two of them together, Michael still being prickly over the whole flower crown incident only made things worse.

“Wendy, this is Michael,” Gerry said, trying to salvage the situation. “I’m teaching him how to make arrangements.”

“Oh,” Wendy said, dialing back her enthusiasm a few notches. “That’s nice.”

“Right, so...” Gerry risked touching Michael’s back to try guide it out the front door. “Back in a bit!”

Michael wouldn’t budge, it simply leaned into Gerry. “It’s rude not to introduce me in turn, you know.”

Gerry glared daggers at the bastard. Michael just smiled. 

“He has a point,” Wendy said. 

Gerry grit his teeth. He just couldn’t win.

“Michael, this is Wendy. She owns the shop. That makes her my boss. Please be nice.”

“I’m always nice,” said the people-eating monster made of lies and delusions.

“It’s good to meet you,” Wendy said. “Sorry I can’t shake hands. I was repotting plants in the back and mine are a bit of a mess.”

“I understand,” Michael said cheerfully, enjoying itself too much. Gerry gave it a sidelong glance.

“We should really be going,” he said, opening a door that thankfully still opened onto the street.

“Have fun,” Wendy called.

“We’ll see,” Gerry replied.

As soon as they were out of sight of the shop Gerry rounded on Michael. “If you so much as look at her...”

Michael smirked at him. “That’s rather hard to avoid when she owns the shop, seeker.”

“I mean _please_ leave her alone.” Gerry shook his head, knowing his requests amounted to jack shit, and started walking again, leaving it to Michael to chose where to go. “Are you being especially infuriating today to make up for last time, or is it just because it’s a Tuesday?”

Michael walked at a languid pace, never getting too far ahead of Gerry in spite of its long stride. “Time is as much an illusion as how I appear to you now.”

Gerry was about to retort when Michael abruptly turned down a narrow alleyway. Gerry cursed and hurried after it, barely catching it as it turned again into an archway that was so shrouded in ivy Gerry never would have noticed it had he not just seen Michael disappear that way with his own eyes. 

Michael had led him into a small forgotten garden nestled between two buildings. No windows looked down on it, just a very old painted advertisement on the brick wall that was so faded Gerry couldn’t made out anything but vague shapes and colors. The overgrown garden and the surrounding walls weren’t completely overtaken by ivy yet, but Gerry could see why Michael liked the place given how the vines spiraled around the stonework and crept up the long disused fountain. 

It was unnervingly quiet to be so close to a main city street. If the fountain actually worked and the plants were cared for, it might have even been beautiful, relaxing little retreat. As it was, the space just felt creepy and oppressive to Gerry. It had the same kind of energy as the Distortion’s halls, so Gerry wasn’t terribly surprised Michael gravitated straight toward it. 

He remembered Gertrude taking him to similar places in the past, pockets of power where devotees of the Fears tended to go to attempt rituals. An eerie little garden wasn’t the first thing that came to mind for the Spiral, but the Fears were just full of surprises.

Michael sat down on a flat stone bench and stretched its legs out. The only other was broken in half and mostly eaten by vines, so Gerry settled for sitting as far apart as possible on the same bench as Michael.

Gerry said nothing, he just watched as Michael’s fingers curled around the edge of the bench. It stared off into space, its expression difficult to read. Most of the time it looked placid, Gerry realized—but in an artificial way that put him on edge. It was the same with that smile. The whole facade Michael wore in public put Gerry in mind of a pitcher plant—pleasing and seemingly harmless until you got too close, and then it was too late.

So what the hell was he doing hanging out with it?

“Do you remember Sasha James?”

Michael’s soft voice in the silence startled Gerry out of his guilty reverie.

“From the Magnus Institute, right?” 

Michael nodded.

Gerry remembered the day Michael bought the lilies very clearly, Sasha included—but only to a point. He remembered she came in after Michael and Gerry offended her by staring too closely at her badge, but her features were a blur. He couldn’t even recall if she had dark skin or light, short hair or long. Trying to think too hard about it just turned up a mental image like a double exposed photograph. All he remembered clearly was her calling him Robert Smith.

“Not exactly.” Gerry frowned. “We only spoke for a moment.”

“I remember her very clearly,” Michael said, smiling ruefully. “A benefit of being what I am.”

“What happened?”

“What happens to all Archival assistants sooner or later, seeker.”

“Did you...?”

“Oh no,” Michael said, not at all offended by the implication it killed her. “I merely delayed the inevitable.” It lightly trailed its finger across the empty stone between them, drawing spirals in the years of collected grime. 

Gerry wasn’t sure what to say to that. Gertrude didn’t have any assistants when he was around. She never spoke of any she had in the past, and Gerry knew better than to try and ask. She also never offered to take him on, and Gerry refused Elias’s repeated offers to ‘make things official’ instead of more or less working freelance.

“I hate being left with these tattered scraps of identity,” Michael said, digging its finger deeper into the stone until it was carving the lines into it. “I hate feeling these things.”

Somehow Gerry didn’t think it was speaking of Sasha any longer.

Michael looked him dead in the eye. “I hate feeling anything at all.”

Maintaining eye contact was a bad idea, but it was too late.

Gerry fell into those spiraling eyes, felt pain, despair, and a host of other sensations he couldn’t begin to process as he kept falling.

Just like the human eye could only perceive so many colors, the deeper emotions, if they could even be called that, were beyond Gerry. What he understood was anger, hurt, betrayal—and at the very core was something small and bright that somehow hadn’t been completely torn apart by the others. He heard the howling of winds behind it all, filling his senses until it became the white noise of an old TV on a dead channel.

Gerry blinked. His ears were ringing. The white aura around his vision faded until he saw that he and Michael were face to face and very close. 

Blood oozed from Gerry’s nose. As he reached up to wipe it away, he saw the eye tattoos on his knuckles were glowing green.

“Shit.”

“I am not meant to be _beheld_ ,” Michael said coldly, its voice buzzing with indignation.

“It was an accident,” Gerry said, head still pounding as he leaned back. “I haven’t done that in a long time. Didn’t think I still could—least of all to _you_.”

“And that is why I don’t slit your throat.”

“Yeah, well... thanks.”

Gerry stood up. Another bad idea.

He wondered if it was possible to get a case of the bends just from psychically diving into the Distortion. It sure as hell felt like it. His legs gave out and sent him tumbling back to the bench. Michael had every right to let him split his fool head open on the stone, but it caught him instead. Its fingers curled around him—gently, carefully—and helped Gerry down so his head was resting in its lap.

It felt like a normal human lap, which couldn’t be right, but Gerry’s senses had just been scrambled, so how was he to know what was what anymore? The garden even seemed nice and welcoming at the moment.

“You should fear more for your life,” Michael said in the chiding tone generally used to inform others they should eat less red meat. “Why don’t you?”

Gerry curled up so his legs were on the bench. “I almost died once before, but it wasn’t from anything related to all of this.”

“I’m aware.”

Michael brushed back Gerry’s hair, its fingers ghosting across the surgery scar on Gerry’s scalp along the way. Every time Gerry had to re-dye his hair he saw it again, which made him even worse about touching up his roots.

Michael kept lightly stroking Gerry’s head as it added, “I was there in the hospital.”

Gerry couldn’t move, much less get away, without risk of getting cut. All he could do was remain curled up in the Distortion’s lap as it kept trailing its very sharp fingers over his head in a twisted parody of tenderness.

Gerry stared straight ahead. “I thought I hallucinated that.”

“No.” Michael chuckled softly. “I kept trying to kill Gertrude Robinson myself, as I mentioned before, but she knew far too many tricks to protect herself.”

Michael’s fingers curled around Gerry’s throat. “And then there was you. Not exactly an assistant, but a cohort.” Its tone was distant, dreamy. “I thought perhaps I might kill you to get to her, just when it seemed the doctors might save you. I thought it would be funny.”

Gerry felt remarkably calm, all things considered. “She wouldn’t care. Not really.”

“No,” Michael agreed. “She wouldn’t.”

“And now she’s dead.”

“Yes.”

Michael took its hand away, allowing Gerry to slowly get up. He stood from the bench and dusted the grime off his pants before giving Michael a pointed look.

“Were you trying to terrify me just now?”

“Maybe.”

“And are you disappointed?”

Michael made a noncommittal murmur and crossed its legs. It folded its hands on its knee, acting for all the world like it hadn’t essentially just held a bundle of knives to Gerry’s throat.

Gerry stretched his arms while Michael watched. Sitting curled up like that left him sore all over. He was getting too fucking old for this shit—all of it.

Getting angry would accomplish nothing. He might as well be dealing with a bastard cat. It would learn nothing, nothing would change, and nothing would be accomplished.  
  
So fuck it.

“You never did tell me what you want, by the way,” Gerry said.

Michael stared thoughtfully off into the middle distance. “I suppose I _do_ want to be friends...”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Understanding that the last time I offered someone that, they died horribly not long after.” Michael smiled at him.

Gerry tried to pull his quads, but the scar tissue there ruined his flexibility. “What, so you think you’re cursed or something?”

Michael laughed. Either Gerry was getting used to the sound of it, or it didn’t have much of an effect when he still had a lingering headache. “Given my history, one could certainly start to think that.”

“Care to elaborate?”

Michael just gave him a look. Right. It had said more than enough already.

“Fine.” Gerry took a few steps toward the archway leading out of the garden. “But if you ever decide you do want to talk more, you know where to find me.”

“Yes,” Michael said, its eyes glinting. “You also said you were going to teach me how to arrange flowers, remember.”

“That was a lie!”

“Lies can easily be twisted into truths, seeker.”

“Fine.” Gerry threw his hands up. “We’ll see how well this goes with you and your knife hands, but in exchange you have to promise to stay away from my coworkers.”

“I promise.” Michael raised its hand in a mockery of a scout salute.

“Right.” Gerry folded his arms. “And how can I possibly trust you’ll keep that promise?”

Michael’s laughter echoed through the garden with renewed volume and vigor. “Naturally you can’t.”

“Look.” Gerry pointed a warning finger at Michael. “If you wanna be friends, or learn absolutely anything from me, then you’ve gotta respect my wishes. Deal?”

“Ugh.” Michael pouted, actually fucking _pouted_. “Fine.”

Gerry knew he would pay for that, he didn’t need any help from Beholding to know it for a fact—because Michael was petty.

He wasn’t at all surprised to find that, despite the fact he remembered the way to the garden being very simple, he still managed to get lost on the way back to the shop.

That was fair, so long as Wendy and Razor were left out of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An illustration by [jaradraws on tumblr](https://jaradraws.tumblr.com/post/624645762625798144/some-gerrymichael-based-on-a-fic-from)
> 
> They keep getting so close to THE TRUTH about Michael but stuff keeps coming up. Funny how that goes.


	5. Eyes (in Me)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gerry visits the Institute. It doesn’t end well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is gonna be a rough one. Jon and Gerry tentatively mend fences, then Elias shows up and is a content warning all by himself.
> 
> cw: body horror (specific to brain surgery and eyes in incorrect places)

It seemed like Michael was avoiding him. Gerry wasn’t sure why, even with the promise of flower arrangements to bring it out to torment him at any hour, but trying to puzzle out its moods was pointless. Instead, Gerry decided to deal with the other jerk who was avoiding him, since Jon’s refusal to take Gerry up on his offer for advice had somehow already led to trouble. Fucking Archivists, always thinking they knew best.

Gerry waited until he had a day off, gathered up some rejected flowers—the ones where the petals got a little messed up or split in transit, or the filler a bit too bent—and some roses he set aside and never de-thorned. It was all going to be made a mess of in the end, anyway, so why start with good stuff? The other flowers helped to offset the flaming pink of the Floyds, so the overall effect was a bouquet that was pretty, colorful, and staring at you—because he also worked in things like sunflowers, anemones, poppies, any flower that kind of looked like eyes just to be crass. Those helped to draw attention away from the roses at the outside of the bunch, their awful thorns pointed outwards. Wendy would probably call the finished product Tequila Sunset, because she loved coming up with names for arrangements that sounded like paint swatches and mixed drinks that could knock you on your ass.

Gerry finished it off with standard wrapping paper, careful of the thorns. It was way too bright and garish for a memorial bouquet, but he still wasn’t if sure that was necessarily the occasion. Even if it was, he was fairly certain he’d find Rosie still working reception—and she’d just chock it up to Gerry being Gerry.

Sure enough, Rosie was there when he finally worked up the courage to step inside the Institute. The initial look of suspicion of a goth cradling a colorful bouquet in the crook of his arm was chased away by a bright smile when she recognized who it was. 

“Gerard!” She exclaimed with delight. “After all this time! You’re back!”

No one at the Institute was a friend. Not really. Rosie was a dear, but she was also a horrible gossip. Gerry smiled at her as he sidled up to the front desk, steeling himself for the onslaught of questions.

“It’s been ages, love!” Rosie groused in her East End accent. “Where have you been? We frankly thought you died! I’m so glad that’s not the case, but you do know how people talk!”

 _You_ talk, Gerry wanted to say, but he kept his smile fixed and nodded along as Rosie kept going.

“And you _do_ know you’re always welcome, dear, even after... even... oh, goodness, you heard about our dear Ms. Robinson, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” Gerry said. “I heard.”

“Tragic, just tragic.” Rosie shook her head. “But young Mr. Sims and his intrepid little crew are doing quite well for themselves... er, all things considered.”

The way she frowned as she said that last bit made Gerry shift the bouquet in his arms. 

“That’s actually why I’m here.” He put on a suitably contrite expression. “I though I’d deliver this down to the Archives personally after hearing about what happened.”

“Oh, yes.” Rosie put her hand to her chest. “It was quite the ordeal. Thankfully no one was hurt too badly. And what lovely flowers they are, too!”

“Right...” Gerry mentally recalculated. Either Michael had lied about Sasha, which was very likely, or—well, he’d soon find out. The bouquet was hardly his best work, either. The composition was a mess, and he hated the colors, but trust Rosie—who always wore pink—to love it. He’d have to make her something better later, using nothing but shades of pink and roses that were all carefully de-thorned. It’d be better than slipping her... well, the value of such a bouquet would be worth at least a hundred, anyway, but Gerry was letting his thoughts wander too far afield again.

Rosie handed him a fresh visitor pass and winked. “Just like old times, eh?”

“Yeah.” Gerry gave her a strained smile. “It’s all coming back to me now.”

He didn’t want to be here in the Stronghold of the Eye, feeling himself watched with every step he took. He hated it, hated being here.

Just like old times.

* * *

Little had changed since Gerry last set foot in the Institute. They switched the lightbulbs for more energy efficient models, which only gave everything a colder, eerier quality as far as Gerry was concerned. The smell of the Archives hit him as soon as the lift doors opened—old paper and despair that shouldn’t really have a smell, but assaulted his senses nevertheless. Gerry blamed his upbringing for tuning him into it all. It never failed to set him on edge.

It was around lunchtime, so Gerry was hoping to find the Archives deserted. Rosie hadn’t mentioned anyone was out, but then Rosie tended to only concern herself on keeping track of whether or not Mr. Bouchard was in the building. It was likely the others were up in the canteen.

Sure enough, no one was in the bullpen. Hopefully the door to the Head Archivist’s office was unlocked so Gerry could get in and out quickly and deal with the long overdue angry phone call from the comfort of home. If it was locked, he had picks on hand and was used to dealing with that particular old lock.

There was a note in the bouquet (‘call me, you asshole -G’), buried deep enough that Jon couldn’t help but catch one of the thorns digging it out, but it just so happened Jon was coming out of the break room with a mug of tea. Jon was so focused on steeping the tea bag as he walked back to his office that he didn’t see Gerry standing by the door.

Gerry did the reasonable thing after hearing nothing from Jon for weeks—he smacked him with the bouquet.

Jon spilled tea all down the front of his sweater vest. A number of colorful petals fluttered to the floor—a few others got stuck in Jon’s hair. The combined assault of the flowers and tea only wounded his pride, but once he saw Gerry Jon looked genuinely afraid. 

Chilly knowledge dropped into Gerry’s mind unbidden. Goddamn Beholding.

“You think I _killed_ Gertrude Robinson?!” he hissed in a whisper.

“There are several potential suspects,” Jon stammered, fiddling with the office door that was indeed locked. 

Gerry followed him inside and shut the door. “Surely you don’t suspect your own goddamn assistants!”

“They’ve all been acting quite suspiciously since her body was discovered.” Jon moved quickly, putting the desk between them so Gerry couldn’t easily get to him.

“Because discovering a dead body tends to fuck with people, Jon!” Gerry retorted. “And that’s not even counting whatever else has been going on!”

Jon glowered at him. He was a mess, and a fresh tea stain down his front was the least of it. Gerry was so distracted by the sudden knowledge of Jon’s murder suspicions that he hadn’t noticed the circular scars until Jon was lit by harsh light of his desk lamp. They were spotted all down his face and one arm, like something—probably an aspect of the Corruption—had tried to borrow into his flesh.

“Shit,” Gerry whispered in horror. The very nature of the Archives often compelled one to speak softly. “What happened? Why didn’t you call me?”

“It’s fine.” Jon pulled his vest off just to avoid looking at him. It made even more of a mess of his hair. There were dark circles under his wild looking eyes from lack of sleep, and he had a day’s worth of stubble showing. “It’s all well under control now.”

“Is it?”

Jon glared at him. “You never answered the question about Gertrude Robinson.”

“Technically you never asked me.”

“ _Did you murder Gertrude Robinson?_ ”

“No.” Gerry shivered. “I wasn’t even in the country. Fuck, I made sure not to even set foot in the UK until I was sure she was dead. Happy now?”

Jon’s face screwed up into a ‘I ordered no pickles and this clearly has pickles in’ sort of frown. “You could have had her killed for all I know.”

Gerry laughed bitterly. “Yeah? Paying with what?” He pulled his hair back and parted it so the surgery scar in his scalp was showing. “She fucked off right after I had brain surgery in Pittsburgh, and after that my net worth was exactly jack and shit.” Gerry combed his hair back with his fingers. “Get your assistants to look it up if you like, the records are most definitely still out there.”

Jon flopped in his high backed chair and folded his arms, not looking at Gerry. “They have more important things to do.”

“Oh, so _now_ you trust them again?” Gerry scoffed. “By the way, how is Sasha?”

That drew a fresh suspicious glare. “She’s fine. Why?”

Gerry’s stomach did a weird little flip of anxiety. So as far as anyone in the Archives knew she wasn’t dead. That could mean a lot of things. 

He smiled. “I just wanted to apologize for my uncouth behavior when she was in my shop way back when—y’know, since I’m here.”

“Is that what the flowers are for?”

“Oh, no, I was always going to assault you with these.” Gerry laughed. “Though hold on a second.” 

He laid the bouquet down on Jon’s desk and slowly pulled out the roses one by one until he had enough for a small, very thorny bouquet. He slid off the outer layer of wrapping paper and carefully re-wrapped the roses, concealing the thorns so it looked harmless, and very gingerly held it so none poked through. 

Jon raised an eyebrow.

“Upon further examination,” Gerry said. “I decided you’ve been punctured enough.”

“How thoughtful.”

Feeling a twinge at the familiar turn of phrase, Gerry pushed the other, now completely harmless bouquet over as a peace offering. “You should still call me if you have questions.” He pointed at Jon, who recoiled. The man acted like everything was a weapon. “I mean it. I want to help you, Jon. Don’t let this happen again.”

“I suppose.” Jon pulled out one of the anemones and turned it over in his fingers. “But as for Sasha, I’m afraid you’re out of luck today. She’s been spending her lunches out with her new boyfriend, _Tom_.”

The disdain Jon put on the name gave Gerry the impression Sasha was quite obnoxious about her new relationship.

“Yeah? And how long has—“

The door opened.

“Knock knock.”

It was Elias. Leave it to him to open the door not only without warning, but to say ‘knock knock’ as he did it. He had the gall to feign surprise when he saw Gerry.

“Ah, Gerard,” Elias said brightly. “What a pleasant surprise. Rosie told me you’d paid us a visit.”

Gerry scowled. “Did she now?”

Elias smiled. It did not reach his eyes. “You just can’t stay away from our Archivists, can you?”

“I was sincerely trying to avoid making a habit of it,” Gerry replied. “Yet here I am.”

Elias looked past him to Jon. “You don’t mind if I steal him away, do you?”

Gerry shook his head. “I should really be going, anyway.”

“Excellent!” Elias pressed his hands together. “Then I’ll just see you out. Good afternoon, Jon.”

Jon murmured goodbye, looking gobsmacked that Gerry and Elias knew each other to any extent. He really should have known.

Gerry made a point to avoid clenching his fist around of the thorny bouquet as he marched to the lift, but he could feel Elias’s gaze on his back the whole way. Once inside, Gerry hit the button for the lobby. Elias took out a key and locked the lift on that floor. 

They’d gone through this song and dance many times before. Gerry was too annoyed to be afraid as he turned to face Elias.

“It feels good to be home, doesn’t it?” Elias said, still smiling that fake smile.

“You mean London?” Gerry retorted, grinning as he played deliberately obtuse. “Sure. America is the pits.”

“You know exactly what I mean, Gerard.” Elias looked to the ceiling and held his arms out. “Don’t you feel that you belong here? Haven’t you _always?_ Why must you continue to fight it?”

Gerry laughed. What an absurd conversation to be having in a lift. It was a good thing Gerry wasn’t claustrophobic.

“Just get to the point, Elias.”

“The same offer as before,” Elias said. “No expiration date. I think you’ll get on much better with _this_ Archivist than the last.”

“Still not interested.”

Elias clicked his tongue.

“Oh, Gerard,” he sighed. “Dear, sweet, misguided, Gerard. Why do you keep running from your destiny? You can never truly escape it.” Elias gave him a pitying look. “And on some level I think you know it.”

“Please.” Gerry sneered. “What does that even fucking mean?”

Elias smirked. “Allow me to show you.”

The air in the lift changed, as did the lighting. Suddenly it was just Gerry and the glow of Elias’s eyes.

Gerry was falling.

“The operation started the same as any other,” Elias said, his smooth voice echoing back through time and space.

Gerry was there. He heard the steady beeping of a heart monitor. Saw the bright glare of the operating theatre lights. Faces largely obscured by masks were crowded around him, but he was just an open square amidst sheets of blue. All that mattered was the shaved section of the head they were operating on that day. The rest of his body might as well not exist.

Gerry was outside of it all. A passive observer.

The head surgeon spoke his instructions, and the procedure began in earnest with the sound of a bone saw cutting into skull.

“The odds of your survival weren’t good,” Elias went on. “The tumor was so very large. But there was still a chance, however slight, and the consent forms had all been signed, so the surgery proceeded.”

Gerry knew all this already. Why belabor the goddamn point?

The sound as they tore into him was sickening. The surgeon sounded fairly bored as more tools were asked for, used, and handed back bloody. The heart monitor remained steady. Everything was going according to plan.

“The real test was when they exposed the tumor,” Elias said. “And oh, what they exposed!”

“Doctor, is that—?” a nurse said.

“It can’t be...”

An eye was staring up at them.

“We’ll just... just cut it out,” the surgeon said, badly shaken. “Treat it as any other tumor.”

“I’ve heard about this,” another voice said, desperate. “I-it can happen with teeth... anywhere...”

”But eyes?!”

”Shut up!” The surgeon roared. “Everyone focus!”

“It’s a small miracle he didn’t kill you,” Elias said gleefully, his voice everywhere and nowhere. “His hands were shaking so badly. But he was a consummate professional, that Doctor Nischal. Though he couldn’t shake the feeling that bloody eye was staring straight at him once it landed on the tray—and _kept_ looking at him.

“Nischal still thought it was looking at him long after our sister organization in America seized it and sealed it away in their Artifact Storage. He became rather obsessed with eyes after that day.”

Elias’s laughter chased away the image of the operating theatre, leaving only darkness.

“As for that eye?” Elias asked. “Does it have any special properties on its own? I couldn’t tell you. The Usher Foundation wanted it just because it happened to be discovered on American soil. Just in case.”

Reality asserted itself slowly. The lift faded back in with Gerry pressed in the corner by the control panel sobbing.

He had dropped the bouquet at some point. It was on the floor between him and Elias, who picked it up—mindful of the thorns, and delicately sniffed the garish pink roses—before looking back at Gerry with a smirk.

“I’ll have them send over the eye, if you want,” he said. “But only if you join us. Consider it a... _signing bonus.”_

Elias laughed.

Gerry couldn’t stop crying. He couldn’t get the image of that eye bulging from his frontal lobe out of his mind’s eye—fuck, what a horrible turn of phrase. The way it stared at Doctor Nischal, like it knew all his secrets. The way it followed Nischal everywhere, even long after it was removed. The way it _broke_ him.

Gerry was the monster in that story, he knew it.

All those headaches had over the years were that _thing_ growing inside him.

“Are there more?” Gerry wheezed, his voice very small.

“Hmm?” Elias glanced down from the roses. “More eyes inside you? Oh, it’s certainly possible. You aren’t the first this has happened to, Gerard my boy. Your dear mother tried very hard to forge you into something truly remarkable, something I would envy and fear, but alas, she had no idea what she was doing. Though Beholding _has_ blessed you to some extent, you’re nothing so great or terrible as she hoped. Pity, that.”

Elias idly plucked a petal off one of the roses. “Nevertheless, we’re all under the Eye’s gaze here, and I _would_ like to have you close at hand—as an ally, of course.” He turned his hand out graciously, as if to help Gerry up. “Thus the offer for employment is always open.”

Gerry ignored him. He clutched his head, afraid he could feel more eyes percolating under his skull. Eventually, he didn’t know how long, Elias reached over Gerry and twisted the key on the panel, returning the lift to normal operation.

”You’re free to go for now,” Elias said.

Gerry got up slowly, leveraging his back against the wall. He hated that Elias just fucking knew to avoid the thorns on the roses. Elias either followed his gaze or read his mind, who could say, and smiled. “Oh, yes. You don’t mind, do you? My husband has been a bit of a prat lately, so I suppose I should thank you. It’s going to be quite amusing when he gets his oafish hand around these thorns.”

The lift doors opened. Gerry staggered out into the lobby, not carrying that his mascara was running.

“Oh, and Gerry?” Elias called. He was leaning against the open lift so it wouldn’t close.

Gerry spun around. “I’m not your fucking friend!” He shouted loud enough that it echoed through the lobby and drew the stares of everyone in it.

Elias laughed lightly. “Didn’t I say Gerard? My apologies. Must be because I’m getting up in age.” He traced the roses along a cheek that was still taut and barely wrinkled for a man well past middle-age. “As I was going to say, unless you come back here fully intending to sign a contract next, I have _much_ worse to show you than that last little tidbit.”

Elias winked and stepped back, letting the lift doors slide close with a cheerful ding.

* * *

Gerry stormed through the lobby, ignoring the continued stares of everyone in it.

Rosie was thankfully too busy receiving a disheveled woman dressed like a real estate agent to break away to try and call to him, so Gerry escaped the Institute without any interference. The tear tracks traced down his cheeks by mascara hardly mattered, he could just call it part of his look. People were going to stare on the tube one way or another. Once he got home he could scrub everything off, throw himself face down on his bed, and try not to think about how many eyes might be in his lungs instead of tumors from years of smoking.

No monsters accosted him on the way, which was a shame. Gerry would have loved to work out his anger on something. At the very least, he would have liked to see Michael.

But Michael was apparently busy with his own monster bullshit, so Gerry would just have to deal.

Mostly that meant more crying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gerry: I’ve decided Jon’s been punctured enough.  
> Michael: I disagree. :)
> 
> (Sorry for the lack of comfort this chapter, Michael’s gotta get Ms. Richardson corralled first. Next chapter, I promise!)


	6. Technicolor (Nightmare Coat)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael returns Gerry’s coat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m starting to accept I’m a dyed in the wool horror writer and nothing stays fluffy or funny long. I’m sorry.
> 
> cw: Mary Keay related flashbacks, nightmarish future visions (ALSO involving eyes!)

Gerry hated the way his eyes looked without makeup. He spent way too much time at the bathroom sink scrubbing his face of everything, but just a glance up when it was finished reminded him that he hated his natural hair color and how his eye lashes were like pale filament that all but vanished in certain light. He never really minded his eyes before—at least they weren’t like his mother’s, so there was that—but one look at them in the mirror was enough to make him feel nauseous now.

Gerry hurried out of the bathroom and flung himself face first on to the bed as promised. Small mercy that he had a long shower that morning, because he didn’t trust himself not to start poking every inch of his body for lumps that might be new eyes growing after what Elias had shown him.

Sadistic fucking asshole. Gerry knew he should have stayed away from the Institute, but his concern for Jon and his assistants overrode all common sense.

Gerry pressed his face into his pillow and tried to clear his mind. Impossible. His thoughts, like his pulse, were racing, and his twisted upbringing meant a lot of buried memories concerning eyes were waiting and eager to claw their way to the surface.

One of Gerry’s earliest memories as a child was his mother grasping his little face between her thumb and forefinger, painfully pinching his cheeks so he had no choice but to hold still as she closely examined him.

She said he had his father’s eyes, then let go of him and laughed. She laughed and laughed and laughed—and little Gerry was too busy crying because his cheeks throbbed from the way those long, painted nails of hers dug into his skin to wonder what was so funny.

Gerry didn’t remember what happened after that, but just thinking about it made fresh tears well into his aching eyes.

Something like a blanket landed on him with a flutter of cloth, covering Gerry’s head and back. He yanked it off automatically and rolled over, ready to fight.

Michael did not laugh at him, which was a curious change of pace. It just smiled. Whatever door it used to invade Gerry’s apartment was already gone.

“Hello,” it said. “I fixed your coat.”

Gerry looked down at the fabric balled in his fist. It was black. Mostly. Gerry smoothed it out to find Michael had repaired all the holes and shredded bits with multicolored thread. It was an interesting effect. Michael hadn’t stopped at just mending the tears, either. The thick twisting lines of thread had far more purpose and flow to them, with needlework that looked a lot like proper embroidery to Gerry.

It was pretty. Hard to look at for too long, but pretty.

He gave Michael a quizzical look. “I thought you said you were keeping it.”

“I changed my mind,” Michael replied, idly brushing its nails off on its own coat. “Try as I might to alter it, I’m afraid it’s still just not my style.”

Gerry smirked. “And after all the trouble you went to.”

“No trouble.” Michael sat down at the edge of the bed and lightly tapped Gerry’s leg. “I’m quite good with needles, as you know.”

Gerry clutched the transformed coat to his chest. He was going to cry. There was no stopping it.

“Thanks,” he croaked, tears spilling down his freshly scrubbed cheeks.

Michael looked alarmed. “It was not my intention to break you with this gesture.”

“No.” Gerry uttered a shaky laugh. “It wasn’t you. I went to the Institute today—” he paused to sniffle. ”—to see for myself what was up, and Elias Bouchard was on me like a fucking hawk.”

Gerry didn’t quite appreciate just how much Michael stayed in constant motion—whether it was feigning a perfectly human idle gesture, or the far less natural way its features shifted when it dropped the illusion—until Michael went stock still at the revelation.

“You were there...” it whispered.

Gerry dabbed his eyes with the coat. It smelled odd after being with Michael so long, like the smoking wires of blown out electronics and shag carpeting soaked by fresh rain—the uniquely weird combination was a welcome distraction from the memory of the Institute.

Suddenly Michael was right beside him on the bed. Gerry didn’t even feel the mattress dip. He gasped. Michael was so agitated it had dropped the disguise, its elongated form stretched down the length of the bed. Its face was a blur of three different glitching expressions—like it was trying to look at him and somewhere else at the same time—all united only by the eyes. 

It always came back to the fucking eyes. Window to the soul, right? If the Distortion even had one. Michael’s were swirling and changing color with an intensity Gerry had to assume meant it was deeply upset. He looked away lest he get pulled into them again, raising the repaired coat for good measure.

“I was... _distracted_ ,” Michael said, its halting tone made Gerry risk peeking over the coat to see its face was still a flickering mess. “Otherwise I would have noticed and interceded on your behalf.”

Gerry smiled weakly and lowered the jacket, letting it rest in his lap. “Oh, so you were in the neighborhood?”

He idly wondered if Michael could kill Elias, then immediately decided it was too risky to so much as ask. Friends didn’t pit friends against the likes of Elias Bouchard.

“Yes.” Michael did him the favor of looking away. “I... misplaced something.”

“This concerns eating people doesn’t it?”

“Ah.” Michael didn’t so much look back at Gerry as its face flickered and was once again properly turned his way. “Yes, you of all people would _know—_ wouldn’t you, seeker?”

“It was an educated guess.” Gerry laid down in bed so he was staring at the ceiling instead of the dizzying patterns that made up Michael when it wasn’t trying to hide its true nature. Gerry folded his hands on his chest and felt a lot like a corpse laid out for display.

“You’re not upset,” Michael observed.

“Not about that, no,” Gerry agreed. “I’m frankly too exhausted to worry about how many lives you’ve destroyed to date, or who’s currently dying in your halls. I learned a long time time ago that I can’t save everybody.” He chuckled bitterly. “Didn’t even need Gertrude to teach me that.”

Gerry closed his eyes, becoming conscious of the steady rhythm of his breathing. It reminded him of the machines in the operating theatre.

That was why he didn’t meditate. His mind always wandered to dark places instead of tranquil ones and got stuck there.

He saw a dark room with rows and rows of jar-filled shelves—and in those jars floated perfectly preserved eyes. They all turned and looked at him. They saw him. He saw them. The jars cracked. The eyes spilled out—not onto the floor, but into the world, filling the sky like unblinking stars.

That’s when the screaming started.

“Gerry,” Michael shouted. “Gerry!”

Gerry opened his eyes. Michael was back to looking more or less like a person and was lying on its side next to him. Its face was very close, so close its blonde hair dangled over Gerry’s face. It looked worried.

“Deja vu.” Gerry laughed, feeling drunk. His throat was raw. “It must be bad if you’re calling me by name.”

Michael ignored that. “What did Elias do to you?”

“Showed me what happened during surgery.” Gerry tapped his head. “There was an eye in there, not a tumor. The surgical team didn’t take it very well, least of all the doctor in charge.”

Michael stared at Gerry, looking like it didn’t quite believe him.

“I know it’s true,” Gerry said. “The Eye can only show things as they happened. I could feel their horror and disgust. I could feel Nischal—the head surgeon—cracking up from the idea this eye he just extracted was watching him.” Gerry watched as the closest lock of blond hair swayed back and forth. “Some people go their whole lives not thinking about how much they’re being watched, and then all it takes is one moment to bring it into focus and that’s it. They can’t take it.”

“Do you know what happened afterwards?”

“The vision stopped there,” Gerry said. “I came to on the floor of the lift sobbing while Elias went on about the eye growths being my mother’s fault. He said there could always be more and...” Gerry hissed and curled on his side, wrapping his arms tight around his stomach. “Fuck, I can’t think about this.” Tears welled in his eyes. “I _won’t!”_

A sound like radio static filled the air. Michael was shushing him. It pulled the coat over him like a blanket.

“It’s alright.” Its long, sharp fingers trailed very lightly down Gerry’s side. “If there are any others, I can easily pluck them out.”

“Gee, thanks.” Gerry laughed deliriously. “I‘m not sure if that’s better or worse than the scalpel I was planning to use, but thanks.

“Please do not harm yourself on purpose, seeker.”

It looked like Michael calling him by name was just a fluke born of worry, then. Gerry smiled at its concern nevertheless. 

“Just through my own follies as per usual, right?”

Michael hummed in what was probably agreement, the sound somehow traveling all the way down its fingers and sending a pleasant jolt through Gerry before it took its hand away and rose from the bed.

Gerry looked over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow, feeling a bit more grounded. “Plus you’ve still got dibs.”

“Indeed.” Michael nodded, sending its mass of curly blond hair swaying. “And I would not presume to kill you until you make good on your promise.”

Gerry sat back up to face Michael once more. “And just what does the Distortion need with flower arrangements, anyway?”

Michael shrugged. “The halls could use a bit of sprucing up.”

Gerry, caught completely off guard by that answer, snorted an ugly little laugh of surprise. “Wait, wouldn’t that be tantamount to eating them?”

Michael tilted its head thoughtfully. “More like holding them in my mouth.”

Gerry groaned and shook his head. “Chalk that up as one more thing I do not want to think about.”

“Do you feel better now?”

Once again, Gerry was caught off guard. He had to think about it a moment. His eyes were sore from crying all over again, but he had to admit he felt lighter. “I guess I do.”

Michael nodded and turned. The closet door shimmered, going from its standard eggshell white to vivid yellow. 

“Michael,” Gerry called as it reached for the brass handle. It glanced back at him.

“Thanks again for the coat,” he said. “And, um, everything else... though I still don’t get why you’re being so helpful.”

Michael laughed and opened the door.

“Maybe that’s part of the fun.”

Its spine bent impossibly backward so it could wave to him one last time, reminding Gerry he was friends with a monster—the kind he typically fought. The kind he really shouldn’t trust. God, what was he thinking?

“Goodbye, seeker.”

The door clicked shut.

Gerry stared at the door after it turned back into his closet for a long while, thinking about how Michael had called him by name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fanart!
> 
> By [softchickenwrinkles on Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/p/CCe4btwlI23)


	7. Time (is Waiting in the Wings)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seeker and Seer are only two letters removed. Neat, huh?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By popular demand, Gerry gets a hug.
> 
> cw: nightmares (involving Elias), brief confusion about assault upon waking

Gerry checked the time. After the day he had it felt like it should be at least ten o’clock at night, but no, it was only just past three. The lovely brick wall his bedroom window looked out on made it hard to tell the time by the paltry light that managed to filter in—the fire escape there only as a grudging concession to safety standards. Every now and then he’d get the urge to go sit on it and smoke, only to remember he gave that up cold turkey after his surgery.

Gerry was back on his Fear fighting bullshit, so might as well stick to quitting at least _one_ thing that could ultimately kill him. The window remained locked. 

He draped his jacket over his arm and went to the kitchen/living room, not feeling particularly hungry, but also too fidgety to stay in the bedroom staring at the wall. He made sure there was no TV or computer in there for a reason, the idea being it would encourage him not to stay up all night working or binging shows. It’d be a brilliant plan if not for the existence of smart phones. Gerry fell asleep with his mobile in hand too many times to count. The reason why he stayed up late on the Internet had changed recently, but it was still a nasty habit.

The practice silk flowers were back in their container. In their place on the kitchen table was Gerry’s old sketch book. He didn’t remember digging it out. He folded the jacket over the back of the kitchen chair and sat down to examine it.

Sketching wasn’t something for use with designing arrangements—Gerry didn’t see the point when there was no telling how it would all fit together until he got his hands on the flowers. It was just... well, saying art was his first love sounded silly. It was a distraction, something to lose himself in for hours. It was the first skill he learned that had nothing to do with cursed books, if not the Fears—because when he was young he didn’t know much else to draw. Had he ever attended a proper school his earliest drawings would’ve horrified any teacher, but his mother said he was too good to be burdened by such things—meaning _she_ didn’t want to be burdened by such things. Speaking of mother dearest, drawing also helped to drown out her rants about those sanctimonious bastards in their ivory tower and how she’d show them all, oh yes, until Gerry discovered the joys of very loud music in a charity shop while searching for misplaced Leitners. 

Art was a refuge.

Gerry turned to the first page. The sketch book was quite old and battered, having traveled with him all over the world. The pages where filled with a number of different subjects loosely connected by wherever he was and whatever happened to catch his eye at the time. He rarely remembered to actually make note of the date or location when inspiration struck, so it was up to his own spotty memory to infer where the drawings were done.

The sketches from Italy were easy. Lots of studies of interesting bits of statuary and architecture, and finally a half finished sketch of a woman staring forlornly at nothing. He sighed at the memory, hoping she was still out there somewhere living a good life surrounded by friends.

There were sketches of Gertrude here and there, too. His personal best was of her asleep on a train, using her folded coat as a pillow. Even in sleep she was frowning. Gerry only ever got the chance to complete a sketch of Gertrude when she didn’t know he was watching—and because she was the Archivist that usually meant when she was sleeping.

One of the last pages before Gerry fell out of the habit again were of Razor and Wendy. He got them to pose for him like a real artist, but it felt weird. All his other sketches were candids, so having them staring at him and smiling felt worse than drawing someone without them knowing. 

The likenesses were still good, he just didn’t like how the eyes turned out. Razor was standing at an angle with their arms folded, showing off the intricate sleeve tattoos on their toned arms, and that had given Gerry a nice distraction for a bit. The side of their head that was cropped short was facing him, also showing off the blunted razor earring in that ear. When people asked their name they just pointed to it. Sucked that their music career never took off, but Razor did well teaching music to anyone who could get past the fact they were in their 40’s and still refusing to give up the whole punk thing. They were, of course, especially sympathetic to Gerry’s plight as a thirty-something goth.

Wendy had chosen a demure pose, back straight, hands in her lap. She wore an especially girly dress for the sitting, with a crinoline slip and everything. Combined with her makeup and the kerchief tied around her neck, she looked like she just walked off the set of a Grease revival. They insisted the sketches be fairly small and right on the same page, so the Butch-Femme solidarity was right there for all to see. Gerry remembered when he was done with Wendy, Razor picked her up and swung her around, sending her skirt billowing as they laughed. The two had been together since high school in America and were still very much in love. It was sweet.

Hell, he was a little jealous.

Chuck the plant filled the rest of the page. Gerry tried to look up what species he—Wendy put his pronouns on his shop name tag and Gerry didn’t argue—was using the Internet, but still couldn’t figure it out. Tall, thin, big leaves with a weird shaped bulb up top, and did perfectly fine without much sunlight. Gerry tried asking Wendy but she just laughed and said Chuck was a rescue mutt. He asked Razor what _that_ meant and they said it was their own little inside joke, with a look that told him not to ask any other questions. Gerry really hoped he didn’t have to set Chuck on fire for their sakes, but as weird as it was, the plant never moved or showed any obvious warning signs of being, well, a _plant_ for one of the Fears.

“Oh my god,” Gerry muttered to the empty room. 

He should really eat something. The fridge was overflowing with leftovers Wendy forced him to take home after their most recent dinner night, so he had plenty. He went with the pasta, not bothering to heat it up as he took it back to the kitchen table to flip back through the sketch book one more time.

Of course he got a call while his mouth was full—and from a number he didn’t recognize. Gerry slowly chewed his cold pasta and stared at his mobile as it vibrated across the table, debating if he wanted to take the risk. He swallowed and answered just before the call went to voice mail, still worried it was another debt collector.

“Gerry.” Jon sounded relieved, and maybe just a little perturbed. “Good to know you didn’t give me a fake number.”

“I would never.” The smile carried through in Gerry’s voice.

“I looked into the doctor who performed your surgery,” Jon said.

“Already?” Gerry dropped his fork. “Don’t you have anything better to do?”

“I needed the distraction,” Jon said tartly. “Besides that, it wasn’t difficult information to find.”

“Save it,” Gerry said, turning the lid of Wendy’s Tupperware container over in his hand. It had her name on it in cursive and ‘please return’ with a heart and a smiley face written in permanent marker. “I’ve a feeling I already know what how that story ends.” Gerry stared at the little heart and smiley face. “Hold on, are you calling me from your office phone or your mobile?”

“Office, why?”

“Call me back from your mobile.”

Gerry hung up in the middle of Jon’s demand to know why and waited.

It took a little bit, long enough for Jon’s indignation to simmer into confusion and finally fester into real concern, before Gerry’s mobile rang again. The caller ID was a different number.

“And you called _me_ paranoid,” Jon snarled.

“This is really just a roundabout way to get your mobile number,” Gerry lied. “Though it’s good to know they didn’t leave you with the same number as Gertrude when you came aboard. That could have been awkward.”

“Really, now,” Jon snorted. “Like any old flames calling me up?”

Gerry bit his tongue, his teeth clacking against the piercing. It was very unfortunate phrasing even if it wasn’t the least bit compelling, so Gerry almost laughed. Gertrude was a backstabbing bitch, but—no, she was extremely drunk the night she let that bit about Agnes slip. It was rare Gerry ever saw her like that, must have been the anniversary of something. He couldn’t give that away, even if he she _was_ dead, Gertrude deserved to keep some secrets.

“Gerry?” Jon sounded concerned.

“Gertrude?” Gerry scoffed. “No way. She was colder than Peter Lukas. And he’s... well, keep an eye out. You might see him hanging around sooner or later.”

“The scion of the famously reclusive Lukas family just ‘hanging around’ the Institute,” Jon said incredulously.

God, this was painful. It didn’t matter that Gerry took the precaution to get Jon on an outside line, if Elias was watching he was definitely laughing his arse off.

“Look,” Gerry said. “How about we talk about all this later? We could even chat about it online or something. You do that, right? Chat?”

“I know how chat groups work, Gerry,” Jon grumbled. “I’m not Gertrude, for pity’s sake. _However_ , I’ll only join on one condition.”

“Shoot.”

“You must promise not to bombard me with memes, too.”

“Too?” Gerry chuckled. “Is that a problem with your assistants?”

“It is with _Tim_ in particular.”

Gerry made a mental note to send Jon memes and try and make friends with Tim—and then he made an actual note on his grocery list because he was sure to forget.

* * *

Contacts were swapped, numbers were saved, and Gerry was added to ‘Basement Dwellers HQ.’ Martin immediately informed him the name was Tim’s fault before greetings were exchanged. Gerry told them he’d get with them all later. Lots to do. Had to pretend he had a busy and exciting monster hunting life to attend to instead of just sitting in his flat letting his most recent trauma bleed off.

There was so much to warn them about, but he didn’t know how to do it in a manner that didn’t immediately drive them all away—plus he still wasn’t sure what was up with Sasha yet. If he was going to accuse her, he wanted to be absolutely certain what had her in its clutches first.

Gerry muted the group chat and checked in on it from time to time, finding Sasha didn’t have much to add aside from the occasional comment or ‘lol’ that seemed to just to be a perfunctory reminder she was still in the group, not so much participation. Jon was likewise aloof, citing a self-inflicted injury that made typing difficult. Gerry scrolled up and saw that was from long before he called. He wondered why Jon hadn’t mentioned it before. Oh well, yet more questions for later.

While he was half paying attention to his phone and letting the battery slowly run down, Gerry was focused more on his sketch book. He started a study of his own hand just to get back in the groove, paying attention to the texture of his chipped black nail polish more than the eye tattoos on his knuckles.

He wondered if it would even be possible to do a study of Michael’s hands. Would it balk at the idea? Would Gerry get a headache trying? He moved to a different part of the page and tried to do a sketch from memory, but all he could manage was a sloppy fractal that kind of resembled a hand if you squinted, but was more like a fucked up looking palm frond at a glance. Trying to quantify and capture the Distortion was ridiculous, even dangerous, but Gerry had attempted worse—and he had the burns to show for it.

Funny, he managed to go a pretty long while without thinking about them for once. He was almost proud.

Gerry slapped the sketchbook closed. Time, at last, had slipped away like he wanted. He fingers ached. The callouses he got from working with flowers weren’t quite the same as the ones from drawing, but he’d build those back up in time, too.

He brushed his teeth without turning on the bathroom light—because he’d had quite enough of staring at himself for one day, thanks—changed into his favorite ragged band t-shirt and pajama pants, and crawled into bed.

* * *

Gerry dreamed of tunnels. Not Michael’s twisting, undulating halls and their eye searing colors, but dark tunnels that were very real and deep underground. There was a sense of familiarity to them that filled Gerry with dread.

Water was dripping somewhere in the distance, slow as a dying heartbeat. The tunnels started as modern service corridors with pipes and emergency lights, but suddenly gave way to old brickwork and a plaque for the London Underground in a style that hadn’t been seen since the turn of the twentieth century. Another turn, and there was rough hewn masonry and a slot for a torch. It was empty.

The darkness was absolute. It didn’t matter. Gerry could see everything ahead.

London was built upon the bones of itself. Again and again and again, higher and higher and higher. The thought struck Gerry unbidden as he walked. It went so deep that one could hide a great many things beneath the corpses of its countless iterations—and within them.

Gerry didn’t know where he was going, only that he mustn’t stop.

“Just a little more,” a voice said. Gerry didn’t recognize it, but it changed as it spoke. “It won’t take much.”

“I’ve waited so long.”

It was always a man’s voice, always silky if you wanted to be generous, oily if not.

“But _soon_.”

Gerry was walking on a rusty metal grate. Stairs spiraled upwards. He did not want to climb, but he couldn’t stop.

“After all that I’ve done.”

He ascended. Step by horrible step.

“After all this time.”

He was almost at the top. Gerry was tempted to claw his eyes out rather than see whatever was waiting.

“It will all be worth it.”

The last voice was Elias’s.

* * *

Gerry woke up screaming.

Arms curled around him from behind. Gerry kicked and fought against it, still only half awake, but the stranger in his bed was much too strong. Hands pulled his wrists down so he couldn’t give in to the horrible compulsion that carried over from the dream. The hands had far too many bones. Only natural, with fingers that long, but thinking anything about Michael was natural seemed like an oxymoron. 

The thought jarred Gerry back to reality, which was even more ironic.

The inhuman white noise of Michael shushing him shouldn’t have been comforting, but it was. Gerry relaxed, and was surprised to find himself pressed against Michael. It had gone very still again.

“Should I move now?” It asked.

“No,” Gerry said quickly—too quickly. “I mean... this is fine. I don’t mind. Just let go of my wrists, please.”

Once it did as he asked, Michael didn’t seem to know what to do with its hands. Gerry gently took it by one of its fingers and guided its hand down to his waist. Its hands draped across him like a blanket, curving all the way past the mattress to almost touch the floor. It was warm. Not a human warmth, more like an appliance—hard, artificial warmth.

“How did you know?” Gerry asked.

“Your distress is a beacon,” Michael said. “Ad what happened before will not happen again.”

“Not to sound ungrateful,” Gerry said, trying and failing to keep the tremor out of his voice. “But couldn’t you have woken me up a _little_ sooner?”

Michael chuckled. “Dreams happen in their own time. What feels like hours in their space could be minutes in reality. It’s the same in my halls. I couldn’t tell you how much time actually passed, but I came as quickly as I could.”

Gerry didn’t want to move to check the time, he was too comfortable. “So you have no concept of time?”

“No, not really.”

“That feels familiar.”

“Michael...” it stopped. “No, never mind.”

“What?”

Michael shifting uncomfortably left Gerry feeling like he was resting against a bag of sand. “Suffice to say no part of me has ever been good at accurately judging the passage of time.”

Gerry yawned. “Well, that’s cryptic.”

“Isn’t it?”

So many questions, but Gerry was forever afraid if he pressed it too hard Michael would leave and not come back—or worse. There was really no telling what the Distortion would do if angered.

“Will you stay?” he asked. “Just until I fall asleep?”

“I can remain long after that, if you like,” Michael said. “I don’t sleep.”

“You’re being awful forthright for someone who supposedly only lies.”

Michael laughed. Gerry could feel it echoing through him. That was weird. “There are so very many ways to lie, seer.”

Gerry’s ears were still ringing from Michael’s laughter, so he thought maybe he misheard. ‘Seer’ and ‘seeker’ sounded very similar, after all. Gerry yawned again. He was too tired to worry about it.

“Well, whatever.” Gerry closed his eyes. “I’d ask you how you like your eggs, but I’m guessing you don’t eat real food.”

“I can pretend.”

“One more way to lie, huh,” Gerry murmured, already drifting off.

“Now you’re getting it.”

“Hmph.” Gerry smiled to himself. “G’night, Michael.”

Michael squeezed him in what was probably—no, definitely a hug.

“Good night, seer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, and there was only one bed.


	8. Sending (Mixed) Signals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael is sick and tired of all these #$@&%*!? human emotions.
> 
> Michael can probably pronounce grawlixes like the above, as in literally make the censor bleep sound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was too lazy to think of usernames. Hopefully the door emoji shows up across different devices, but that’s Michael’s final message!

Gerry woke up feeling well rested. He also knew immediately that something was wrong. He hated that feeling, hated that the Eye had apparently come back on him with a vengeance and was far to eager to show him all that he’d been missing and more.

He kept his actual eyes closed and muttered, “What did you do?”

“Hooked your mobile up to the charger,” Michael replied, all innocence. “You left it off and it almost died overnight.”

Gerry opened his eyes and looked over his shoulder. “Why would that matter—unless you were using it?”

“However could I use a mobile with these fingers?” Michael held up one hand.

“Very carefully.”

Michael laughed and relinquished his mobile as a reward for that perfectly vaudevillian reply. 

There were private messages from everyone but Jon, who was clearly the type who only reached out personally if he felt he had no other choice. That was why he had assistants, after all. 

Michael had only touched the conversation from Sasha. 

SJ: Hey, sorry I missed you earlier! Just wanted to say it’s nice to have you in the group!  
GK: wow ur up late  
SJ: Burning the midnight oil haha ;)  
GK: that all ur burning   
SJ: what  
GK: :)  
SJ: Gerry, I’m just doing some extra research for Jon. Please don’t be weird.  
GK: this isnt him  
GK: but thats ok  
GK: ur not sasha  
GK: also  
GK: dont call him gerry  
SJ: who is this  
GK: 🚪  
SJ: wtf

“Not the color I would have preferred,” Michael said, reading over Gerry’s shoulder.

“And then she blocked you. I mean me. Great.”

“It knows you’re protected now.”

“So she was replaced by the Stranger.” Gerry squeezed his mobile tight enough to hurt. “Couldn’t you have just told me that straight away?”

“Perhaps if you asked the right question,” Michael said, sounding exasperated. “But as much as I’m growing to enjoy our little conversations, I can only suffer for them so much.”

“What?”

“It’s _fiiiiiiiiiiine_.” Michael slid away from Gerry and off the bed, moving in a boneless way that paralleled the manner in which it stretched out the word. “There’s no need to worry.”

“Are you trying to say speaking directly instead of spitting out a bunch of roundabout bullshit hurts?” Gerry swung his legs over the bed to get up like a normal person. “Michael! Wait!”

He chased after it as Michael strolled into the living room in those long, lazy strides that made it seem like its legs went on forever. Gerry loved and hated that about it, but if Michael really want to get away it would leave by one of its own damn doors instead of just going through the one already there.

Gerry should’ve known it getting more talkative had a catch.

“Why are your hurting yourself on my account?”

Michael swept right by the kitchen table and hopped on the counter to sit. “Why indeed?”

“This can’t just be about fucking flower arrangements.”

“Oh, Gerry,” Michael said, feigning dismay. “Not the poor orchids.”

Gerry covered his face with his palm while Michael laughed. Fine. He walked into that one. Gerry slid his sketchbook off the table and stashed it away in a drawer, well out of reach of Michael’s sharp fingers.

“Seriously, though.”

“I’m always—”

“ _Stop_ ,” Gerry snapped. “This isn’t funny.”

Michael fell silent. It idly swung its feet over the counter, its expression inscrutable as it eyed him.

“Fuck.” Gerry started to pace after the silence stretched too long—could’ve been a full minute, could’ve been fifteen seconds. “I can’t believe I actually care about the goddamn Distortion.”

Michael tutted. “You might as well love a hurricane.”

“I know!” Gerry yelled. He stopped short, turning back to face Michael. “Wait, what?”

Michael stared at him blankly. “What?”

“I said care.” Gerry pointed at it. “ _You_ said love.”

“D-did I?” Michael tried to recover from that slip of the tongue, but its usual smirk was shaky. It made a throwing away gesture with one hand, though the fingers were growing longer and curling in on themselves at the same time. “Well, it hardly matters if you don’t feel the same.”

Gerry stared at it. 

The fresh bout of silence lasted much longer, and was finally broken only by the flat’s ancient air conditioner rattling to life.

“Do you l—” Gerry started to say, but the noise of protest or pain—it was hard to tell which, exactly—Michael made as it clutched its head was like half a dozen different, equally piercing audio glitches overlapping all at once.

The human brain—fully intact or not—couldn’t handle that sort of sensory input at close range and in an enclosed space.

Gerry blacked almost out on the spot, but not before he saw some very interesting shapes and colors as his mind short circuited and attempted to interpret the scream as something other than noise.

He smelled fresh-cut flowers as he passed out. It seemed appropriate, insofar as Gerry was able to be aware of anything at the moment.

That was certainly one way to avoid admitting having feelings for him.

* * *

Gerry came back around slowly. His ears were ringing, and someone was distantly, frantically calling his name—or maybe it only seemed distant when the ringing was so intense. He was just glad he hadn’t had another vision while he was out.

Vision.

Fuck, he was still only half-conscious and there it was, nigh impossible to deny once the word popped into his head.

Gerry opened his eyes. His v—no, let’s say _eyesight_ reluctantly swam back into focus. His ears were bleeding. Michael looked immensely relieved.

“Seer, huh?” He murmured, going back to what was said the night before. “Is that my new title now?”

Only ‘seer’ had definitely not been what Michael kept saying as it tried to shake him awake in a panic, Gerry was sure of that. He smiled to himself while Michael helped him up. There was something funny about the monster whose halls were full of mirrors treating him like he was made of glass.

“I’m sorry,” it said.

“For what?” Gerry chuckled. “Giving it away or blowing out my eardrums?”

The ringing was subsiding. He hoped this didn’t mean his healing was becoming accelerated again already. He always worried about that in the past, mostly because Gertrude warned him she’d kill him herself if his humanity slipped too far past an acceptable threshold. As if she was the pinnacle of ‘acceptable’ herself. The fact Gerry was so slow to recover in the hospital was perhaps the only reason she kindly fucked off as requested.

He didn’t want to think about if she knew about the eye in his brain—or, if so, how long she might have known.

Michael looked like it wasn’t sure what to say, which was a first. Worse than that, it looked increasingly troubled.

“I don’t think we’re good for one another,” it said at last, slowly stepping away from Gerry as if he were a bomb that might go off from the words.

It wasn’t wrong.

Gerry got up to his feet so quickly it took him a second to fight the wave of dizziness and nausea that came with the sudden action. Michael had already conjured a door, but it hadn’t left just yet. It was waiting on Gerry, giving him a chance to ask questions.

How _thoughtful_.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Gerry demanded.

“These things I feel for you aren’t real.” Michael laughed, but it was a tortured sound, like a warped recording played too slow. “They’re the echoes of a dead man. It _hurts_ , seer. And now that I’ve hurt you it mustn’t continue.”

“So you’re just running away?” Gerry was shouting, but he had every right to be angry. “But what about the flowers?”

Michael rolled its shoulders in a helpless shrug that would have dislocated both shoulders of a normal human being.

“And the Stranger?!”

“They won’t bother you,” it said. “But do not think you can act rashly and expect me to save you again. I won’t. You’ll die.”

“So that’s it, then.” Gerry fell backwards into the nearest kitchen chair, defeated. “You feel a genuine emotion and head for the hills.”

“To do anything with honesty and sincerity is a slow and painful death for the likes of me, seer.” It gave him a significant look. “Just as the Watcher cannot bare to look away for overlong.”

Gerry knew it was exaggerating. No avatar died outright from refusing to indulge their patron, they just grew progressively weaker until they _wished_ they were dead.

Though maybe it was different for Michael. It seemed to be more of a manifestation than an avatar, and yet it still had a human aspect to it for some reason.

The question was why. No, better yet— _how_.

“One last thing,” Gerry said, catching Michael just before it disappeared.

“One,” Michael warned him. “And only one.”

Neither ‘why’ or ‘how’ was going to get Gerry the answer he wanted, he knew it.

“What dead man?”

It turned its head just enough so it could give him a swirling sidelong glance. Gerry wasn’t sure if he was imagining the very slight smirk, as if was pleased he had finally asked the right question.

“Michael Shelley.”

And with that the Distortion walked out on Gerry, slamming the door behind it.

Deja vu all over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise this will all work out in the end. Just trust me.


	9. Damage (Control)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gerry finds solace in (found) family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it finally happened. Wendy and Razor are characters worthy of tagging. Now gaze in horror as I not only twist Maniac Mansion to fit into the TMA universe, but reference Rick & Morty in this chapter.
> 
> cw: reference to rejection sensitivity dysphoria

Gerry wasted no time messaging the Archives crew. It was that or sit around in the kitchen wondering what the fuck just happened, or if he and Michael even had a close enough relationship for that to count as a breakup, all while using a wet paper towel to dab the blood away from his ears before it dried in a line down his neck.

There were private conversations waiting from Jon’s other two assistants from the night before, both sent from decent hours that Gerry simply failed to notice.

Martin had contacted him earliest, saying Gerry could answer whenever it was convenient and he hoped it didn’t sound too forward or strange for asking, but—did Gerry happen to know what was up with Jon lately? Also did he like tea, and if so what kind, and how did he take it?

Gerry smiled at that. He got it. Martin leapt right to the issue that was bugging him most, panicked, and backpedaled to the inane questions that should have come first. It was a good sign that he cared so much. 

Gerry answered as honestly as he could without giving too much away—stress to the first question, whatever they had available was fine for the second. If he told Martin Jon suspected all his assistants of murder it would just lead to a well-meaning but disastrous intervention that would hurt Gerry’s standing with the group, Jon included, more than whatever the hell Not-Sasha was going to say.

Gerry still wasn’t sure how to tackle that problem, and really wished Michael had left it alone—or at least told him privately before flouncing out of Gerry’s life.

He sighed and moved on to the next message. 

Already feeling raw from the rejection, Tim’s idea of a greeting just made things worse—it was nothing but a gif of hellmo, animated flames rising around its upraised arms. Maybe it was a coincidence. It was a ubiquitous image, and could very well just mean welcome—but if Tim knew anything about Gerry and his burns then he was actively fucking with Gerry to see how he would react.

Gerry rubbed his throat at the perfect line where the burn scars stopped at his eye tattoo. Granted, sometimes Gerry read too much into things and worked himself up over nothing, too. 

He sent Tim back an image of knife cat and left it at that. If their entire line of communication ended up as nothing but a Dadaist chain of memes that could be interpreted any which way, so be it.

Lastly, Gerry reached out to Jon. He started by asking if he could find anything on a Michael Shelley, who was probably from London, and after deleting several different follow up messages making excuses for why he couldn’t come to the Archives to discuss things personally, asked Jon to come to Chuck’s Plants after work instead. He could meet Razor.

Jon got back to him amazingly quick.

JS: Is Razor a cat?  
GK: no razor is wendy’s partner. they had a punk band in the 80s and they legally changed their name to razor like meatloaf did  
JS: I’ve never heard of them.  
GK: meatloaf or razor  
JS: Razor.  
GK: hey just because they never made it big doesn’t mean they gave up the dream

Gerry chewed on his lip as he looked at his message screen. Fuck it.

GK: btw if sasha says anything about me today

He cursed as he accidentally hit send too soon. No going back after that.

GK: it’s complicated  
GK: I’ll explain at chuck’s  
GK: just let me know what you find about michael shelley

It was a while before he got a response back. Gerry checked the time—a bit after the workday at the Archives started, plenty of time for Not-Sasha to get to everyone.

JS: Can Sasha still be trusted?  
GK: the real question is if you trust me

It was a full three minutes before Jon replied.

JS: Yes.  
GK: brilliant  
GK: so carry on with business as usual and I’ll see you at the flower shop  
JS: Is that a “no, you can’t trust her”  
GK: jon your staff already thinks you’re acting mental. don’t make it worse  
JS: Please tell me.  
JS: I’ll spend all day worrying otherwise.   
JS: Do you want me to look up this Michael Shelley or not?  
GK: extortion. nice  
JS: Gerry.  
GK: you can’t trust her. nor should you be alone in the same room with her.   
GK: make sure martin or tim are always around at least ok?  
GK: stick with one or both all day under the guise of needing their help researching shelley. it’s safer  
JS: Is this like Jane Prentiss?  
GK: who  
JS: Worm woman.   
JS: The reason for my scars.  
GK: this is arguably worse

He saw the little typing bubbles that meant Jon was seriously considering arguing about it before deciding against it.

JS: I see.

“You really don’t,” Gerry muttered to his phone. “Not yet.”

GK: save whatever you find for tonight unless something vitally important comes up  
JS: What about something extremely unnerving?  
GK: about who exactly  
JS: Give me your e-mail address.

Gerry passed it along and told him he’d check when he got to the shop. It wasn’t his day to work, but he could already tell hanging around his flat was going to drive him up the wall. Better to do something productive with his day while keeping himself distracted instead.

* * *

It was a terrible mistake checking his mail on the train ride over to the flower shop. Once Gerry messaged Wendy to tell her he was coming he felt he might as well take a quick peek since he had his phone out anyway.

Gerry stared at the e-mail. 

The introductory note from Jon read, “This was just what a cursory search turned up: Michael Shelley worked as an assistant under Gertrude Robinson, the records of his employment dates are scrambled, and while I would excuse the shared name as a coincidence given the popularity of the name Michael, he also bears a striking resemblance with the person (entity?) that stabbed me yesterday.

P.S. I told everyone else it was from a little mishap with a knife, but somehow I don’t think I can lie to you.”

There were images attached. Gerry didn’t download them. He stared at the message so long he nearly missed his stop as it was.

Michael stabbed Jon. His—no, _that_ Michael stabbed the Archivist. Why? One too many questions, probably. In spite of Gerry’s warning, he doubted Jon was aware of just how easy it was for a seemingly innocent question to become a command to answer.

“Shit.”

The old lady he disembarked with gave him a nasty look before heading off her own way. Gerry took a moment to glance around the station. Nothing out of the ordinary, but the feeling that something terrible was slowly building was still with him from last night’s dream. 

He found himself craving a cigarette for the first time in years as he climbed the stairs to street level and stopped at the first news stand he passed to buy a pack of gum instead.

Wendy was spritzing Chuck with water when Gerry entered.

“Hey Ger,” she called cheerfully. “Just couldn’t stay away, huh?”

“Yeah.” Gerry smiled, but could never match her level of enthusiasm. “Is it okay if I just chill in the back for a bit?”

Wendy giggled. “There might be a slight problem with that.” Her good cheer faded when she turned and saw him. Something in his eyes or his posture must have given everything away. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing.”

”Gerry, you know—” The bell rang as a customer entered, cutting off whatever Wendy was going to say to coax him to talk. She grimaced.

“It’s fine,” Gerry said. “Go do your thing.” He shooed her toward the woman who had stopped to look at the display nearest the door. “I’ll hide in the back with the tattooed punk so we can be a matched set and, y’know, not scare off the customers.”

Wendy squeezed his shoulder before going off to deal with the woman. Gerry overheard the word wedding and knew Wendy was going to be in sales pitch overdrive for a while after that.

Meanwhile, Razor was in the back trying to deal with the refrigeration system. Water was all over the floor and the usual rumble that filled the back room was absent. An old portable tape player set at uncharacteristically low volume for Razor’s taste was filling the silence. Gerry didn’t recognize the song, but it sounded like grindcore.

“Oh, damn,” Gerry said. “Not again.”

“Fucking tell me about it.” Razor stood up and wiped their hands off on their jeans. “Called somebody but they said it’ll be a few hours before they can get to us. Feel like helping me work these poor roses into something we can sell off quick? They’re not gonna last much longer.”  
  
Gerry tipped Razor a wry salute. “Can do.”

“Thanks, Mr. Meseseeks.”

Gerry groaned. “Please, don’t.”

“Can’t help it,” Razor said. “Wendy’s been doing another rewatch. She loves that shit.”

Gerry shook his head in disbelief as Razor dumped the roses out on the table along with an assortment of other flowers to add variety to the arrangements.

“It’s weird,” Razor said. “Not that Wendy likes it. Her tastes are— _eclectic_ , put it that way. But there was this guy we knew back in high school, Bernard, who’d probably be the worst kind of Rick & Morty fan if he was around today. Like rioting over Szechuan sauce, ‘you’re probably not smart enough to appreciate it’ horrible.”

“Yeah?” Gerry glanced over. Razor and Wendy never really talked about growing up in the States, let alone the people they knew. “What happened to him?”

“Died in an explosion.” Razor said it without thinking. A second later, when the spell broke, they clenched their fist around the rose they were holding, nearly snapping the stem. “I never told anyone that before.”

Gerry went pale. He was just fucking thinking about the importance of phrasing questions carefully, but then he hadn’t worked closely with the Archivist since— _oh_.

Good to fucking know Jon trusted him enough for that particular aspect of Beholding’s power to extended out to Gerry again. As if he didn’t have enough to deal with with his _other_ gift.

“Sorry,” Gerry said.

“Not your fault,” Razor said, breaking away part of the stem so they could tuck the rose behind their ear. “It’s coming up on the 30th anniversary, so I guess it’s hard to avoid thinking about it. That’s why I dug out that old tape player. That’s a friend’s demo tape playing right now.”

”It’s... _interesting_ ,” Gerry said, trying to be diplomatic. Maybe it was the low volume—hell, maybe he was getting old, but it just sounded like noise.

”Green was way ahead of his time,” Razor agreed. “The 80’s just wasn’t ready for his music.”

Gerry wasn’t sure the current decade was ready, either. He leaned closer to the tape player and was sure if the volume was turned up the noise could shatter glass or worse. He hated that it made him nostalgic for Michael.

Thankfully Razor was too lost in their own nostalgia trip to notice the look on Gerry’s face.

“Man.” Razor sighed. “We were so young. Barely even seventeen. Wendy and I were so deep in the closet it was ridiculous. Just gals being pals.”

Razor smirked and shook their head ruefully. They looked over at the flowers Gerry had assembled without even thinking and whistled. “Damn, how do you do that? I just throw things together and hope for the best, and yours has composition and complimentary colors and—well, it looks good is what I’m saying.”

“Artistic eye, I guess,” Gerry demurred. “But you’ve got your talents, too! I was never good with music, myself.”

He tried—or rather, his mother made him try—but he didn’t have the patience for practice. Thankfully she soon became too focused on finding the books to pressure him on it.

“I could still teach you, if you want,” Razor said. They took another ruined rose and tucked it behind Gerry’s ear so they both matched. Razor grinned. 

Gerry felt his eyes welling up. He cut the sob off at the pass and pulled them into a hug. It took Razor a moment to recover from the suddenness of the gesture and hug back.

“Geez, it’s just the piano, Gerry.”

“It’s not that,” he said, sniffling. “I’m just glad I have you two in my life is all.”

“And I’m glad I found you trying to buy cigarettes with a fake ID way back when.”

“Buying them for me was contributing to the delinquency of a minor,” Gerry retorted. “Completely shameful behavior for immigrants to our fair nation.”

“Heh, yeah. Wendy was so pissed,” Razor agreed. They didn’t give a fuck about what the cops or anyone else thought—just Wendy.

“Oh.” Gerry pulled away from Razor. “By the way...”

Razor laughed and rolled their eyes. “Here it comes.”

“It’s nothing illegal this time,” Gerry insisted. “I told a friend to meet me here, and we might end up hanging around past closing.”

“You might as well bring them upstairs, then,” Razor said. “Wendy will want to cook.”

“Maybe.” Gerry managed a tight-lipped smile, already trying to think of how to keep Jon from coming up to the flat above the shop for dinner. That was simply a bridge too far. 

“We’ll see, I guess.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fully intended to have Gerry talk to Wendy or Razor about what happened, but the narrative said no, you’re going to have Razor say horrible things about Bernard Bernoulli (granted, their experience with him would’ve been terrible) AND kill him off in this AU instead.
> 
> Just wait til Jon finds the statement concerning what happened in 1987 misfiled somewhere later.
> 
> (That statement fic will be its own story)


	10. Chewing the Fat (and Gum)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everybody needs to talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, 10 chapters! This is a long one for me, and I decided not to split it up to mark the occasion.

Once the new sale displays were up, there was little for Gerry to do around the shop. He ducked out before Wendy could corner him and ask what was wrong again, citing he need to pop round to the corner shop. Razor asked him to get them a soda, Wendy said she was fine and watched from the front window with a heart-wrenching look of concern.

Gerry kept his head low and his hands in his pockets, eyes straight ahead. He was wearing a shorter leather jacket than usual, which reminded him Michael’s embroidered gift was still back in the flat—if it didn’t slip in and reclaim it while Gerry was away. Maybe it was better if it did.

Gerry returned to Chuck’s with the soda Razor asked for and a bag full of one of every kind of chewing gum the convenience store sold. Razor arched an eyebrow as they caught a glimpse of the rainbow of packets through the plastic.

“Cravings for a smoke that bad?”

“Not really,” Gerry lied. “But I figured these would make for more colorful gum wrapper chains.”

Razor smiled. “Just like Wendy taught you to make back in the day.”

They didn’t so much babysit Gerry win he was younger as harbor a him as a fugitive whenever things were particularly bad with his mum. It gave them a lot of time to kill.

“Yeah...” Gerry popped a stick of grape gum into his mouth.

“She’s worried, y’know.”

Gerry nodded as he chewed.

“Relationship troubles?”

“Sort of,” Gerry grumbled. “Maybe? I don’t know. Just when I thought it was going somewhere—” he made a throat slitting gesture.

“Yeah, some people freak out when they develop feelings for a person. Can’t be helped.” Razor folded their arms and leaned against the table. “You should really talk to Wendy, though. I’m no good with this sort of thing.”

“Did you...” Gerry almost bit his tongue outright to avoid finishing the question. Razor still got the gist and laughed.

“Oh, yeah,” they said, snatching a pack of original flavor gum off the pile. “Took nearly dying to suck it up and confess.” They gave Gerry a hard look. “So try not to let it come to that, m’kay?”

“Can’t really promise anything.” Gerry punctuated that by blowing a bubble til it popped. “But I’ll talk to Wendy right now. Fair?”

Razor nodded their approval and went back to browsing the Internet on their mobile while waiting on the refrigerator repair guy. The music playing from the tape deck was louder now—and better. Gerry thought he recognized the vocalist, but knew Razor would accuse him of stalling if he asked.

He’d never actually heard their albums before, but he could always listen later— _after_ he talked to Wendy. 

She was talking to Chuck when he emerged from the back. Gerry only caught the last bit.

“Maybe I should.” Wendy readjusted the handwritten badge with Chuck’s pronouns hanging from one of his larger leaves. “Communication is supposed to be a two way street, right?”

“Does Chuck ever talk back?”

Wendy yelped and spun around at Gerry’s question, sending her skirts swirling. She laughed nervously. “Nah. It’s more like if I’m gonna talk to the plants I might as well chat with the one that’ll never leave the shop. Seems rude to potentially burden someone else’s succulent with my BS, y’know?”

“That’s very... new age.”

Wendy glanced over the shop and its smattering of non-plant-based offerings—mostly greeting cards and small stuffed animals. “I did think about selling crystals and such once on top of everything else, but I don’t think I can handle that kind of crowd. Brides-to-be are bad enough.”

Gerry arched an eyebrow. “Not keen on the occult?”

Wendy laughed. “I’m a ghostwriter. That’s as close as I care to get.”

“Right.” Gerry clicked his tongue. “I honestly keep forgetting.”

“That’s kind of the point.” Wendy moved around the counter and squeezed his shoulder, content to pick up right where they left off. “So are you gonna talk to me or do I have to get Chuck here to bite your head off?”

Gerry looked up at the plant towering over the counter. Chuck rustled slightly, but then an air conditioning vent was directly above the weird bulbous growth sitting atop its uppermost leaves. That part blocking the direct airflow kept Gerry from feeling like his head and neck were freezing when he worked the register, so most days he appreciated it. Now, he wasn’t so certain.

“I’m kidding!” Wendy laughed.

“I really wished you’d tell me what kind of plant Chuck is,” Gerry said.

“And I really wish you’d stop changing the subject and just tell me why you came in looking like your dog died this morning.”

“Never had pets,” Gerry retorted, smirking ever-so-slightly. God, why couldn’t he just _talk?_ Why did he have to keep dodging it?

“Yes, yes, I know.” Wendy sighed. “Mummy dearest hated animals.”

“It wasn’t so much that she hated them, per se, it was she did to them,” Gerry muttered.

“ _What?”_ Wendy looked ready to invent time travel just to go fight his long dead mother.

“Never mind,” Gerry said. “Now that I think of it, this most recent emotional scar makes me feel like I’m overreacting by comparison. I mean, Michael and I weren’t even that close. It leaving might as well be an emotional paper cut.”

“Okay, first of all?” Wendy got right up in his face. She had to stand on her tip toes in her flats to do it, but damned if she didn’t try. Gerry hunched down a little to oblige her. The appreciative little upturn of her mouth was lightning quick. He couldn’t throw her off her game that easily. “Don’t try to downplay this. Hurt is hurt, Gerry.”

“I guess...”

“Also, if I’m gonna talk shit about this jerk properly, what are Michael’s pronouns again?” Wendy backed off to lean against the counter. “You just said it, but said he the first time. Does Michael go by both?”

“I...” Gerry thought back to trying to wrangle Michael when it met Wendy before, and didn’t even realize he was calling it ‘he’ at the time. It was just what it was—It Is Not What It Is. The Distortion wasn’t a person. It didn’t want to be a person called Michael, Gerry got that loud and clear both from his accidental dive in the garden and when it said it could no longer stand to feel for him, much less be open and honest, before it walked out that morning. Realizing his mouth was hanging open, Gerry weakly finished with, “I’m not sure exactly.”

Did it seriously fucking influence him into calling it ‘he/him’ around Wendy as part of keeping up its human disguise? Gerry scowled. Why was he even surprised? That was what it did. Getting into people’s heads on even the most basic level was just the Distortion’s thing, not that discussing boundaries mattered anymore. Gerry had far more right to be angry over Michael making him get lost on his way back from the garden, but somehow the more subtle twist was worse.

Gerry sighed heavily. In a way, Michael was still in his fucking head, but that probably wasn’t intentional.

“I’ll have to double check next time we’re together,” Gerry said. “If I ever see him, or it, or whatever it actuality prefers to be called, again.” He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “Apparently I wasn’t thinking all that clearly when you two met before.” 

“Razor mentioned what you said to them while you were out,” Wendy said, artfully changing the subject. She crossed her ankles as she folded her arms—like a teacher trying to be cool with a student. She was too professional to outright hop on the counter, lest a new customer see her like that. Wendy didn’t need to know how much Gerry put his feet up on it. “Maybe Michael’s just not used to being in relationships. You could try giving it some time. See if he comes around—even reaches out to you to talk.”

“Give it some time,” Gerry echoed. He couldn’t help but laugh. For Michael that could mean literally anything, so Gerry wasn’t going to hold his breath.

“Oh, and...” Wendy’s eyes shone mischievously. “Razor also mentioned you were having a friend over tonight?”

She didn’t even question if this friend was some sort of rebound. Was it that obvious Gerry was too hung up on Michael?

“Just to discuss research!” Gerry held his hands up like he was dealing with a beast about to charge. “ _Not_ dinner! Besides, it’s Jon. You remember him?”

“Oh.” Wendy’s smile faded. “With the eyes and the voice.”

“Yeah, that guy.”

To his dismay, Wendy pounded her hand into her fist. “Great! Then this will be a chance for me to start from scratch with him! Put that earlier weirdness behind us!”

“Wendy, no.”

“Yes!” Wendy looked determined. Gerry was doomed. “So now I _have_ to cook!”

Gerry shook his head. There was no stopping her, there was only steering where the evening’s train wreck ended up.

* * *

Gerry waited until Jon reluctantly agreed to staying for dinner—unfortunately he had no dietary restrictions to give them an easy out—before revealing what was on the menu. Jon couldn’t get away from the Institute until after the flower shop’s closing hours anyway, so it all worked out. 

Gerry just couldn’t win.

Jon glowered at him. “Is this a joke?”

Gerry stared at the bandages around Jon’s throat. “Jon, what the hell?”

Jon absentmindedly touched the wrappings like he’d forgotten about them. “Ah, right. Well, you see, this technically _does_ interfere with my ability to participate in text chats as looking down at my mobile hurts.”

“No, I mean, ‘what the hell, why didn’t you mention Michael cut your fucking throat’ you wanker.”

“It’s not that deep,” Jon said. “Just a shallow cut. More of a warning. I _may_ have done what you told me not to do. How could I not? It stole a person right in front of me.”

“It _what?”_

“I have a copy of her statement here as well,” Jon said, patting his satchel. “But again, meatloaf? Seriously?”

“Yes, Jon.” Gerry sighed and led him around to the entrance to the flat. All the fun had gone out of it. Gerry paused after opening the door to make sure it led to the expected narrow stairwell. “But it’s only a joke to me. Wendy really does make excellent meatloaf. The fact the singer came up earlier was simply the inspiration.”

Jon squeezed the strap of his bag tightly. “You, er, didn’t mention anything _else_ about that conversation to Wendy or Razor, did you?

Gerry chuckled as he led Jon up the creaky stairs to the flat. “You mean the bit where you initially thought Razor was a cat?”

Razor opened the door before Gerry even had the chance to knock. They were wearing a little black dress and a spiked leather choker for the occasion.

“Meow,” they said, totally deadpan. 

Jon looked mortified. He didn’t know Razor owned a lot of chokers, so all that was really special was the greeting. Gerry had talked Razor out of wearing the cat ear headband they dug out of a box of old Halloween stuff, thankfully.

“Cat lover’s here,” Razor called out into the flat.

“Great!” Wendy called back. “Dinner’s almost ready! Just have a seat in the living room!”

Razor ushered them to sit on the couch while they took the love seat, crossing their legs with uncharacteristic daintiness. The dress left the tattoos on their arms and upper chest exposed, so they made for a picture Gerry desperately wanted to sketch as they bobbed their black stiletto heels to the beat of the unobtrusive classical music playing in the background. Wendy must have insisted Razor dress to impress, just as Wendy definitely chose the soundtrack.

Jon sat with his bag on his lap, back ramrod straight, and didn’t seem to know where it was safe to look.

“You want me to take that?” Razor asked.

“No,” Jon said sharply, his hands going to the bag. “Er, no thank you. I’d rather not lose it.”

“What?” Razor gave him a weird look. “You lose stuff that easily?”

“Things at work have been going missing quite a lot lately,” Jon said, glancing to Gerry.

“Aren’t you the boss?” Razor asked. “The head of your department, or whatever? Sounds like you need to get your house in order.”

“I...” Jon looked confused at receiving sound, if somewhat obvious, advice. “You’re right.”

Razor nodded smugly.

Gerry stood. “I’m gonna give him a quick tour before dinner.”

Jon was all too eager to escape, however briefly.

The flat was a two bedroom, meant for a small family to occupy above the shop, but Wendy used the extra room as an office. That would give Jon and Gerry a bit of privacy if they managed to survive the evening’s dinner embarrassment gauntlet. Razor was clearly set on messing with Jon, and Gerry had no doubt Wendy was going to bust out tales of his misspent youth—the more mundane parts she and Razor knew about, anyway—the moment there was a lull in conversation.

Everything was ready when they returned. Wendy swanned out of the dining room wearing a pearlescent dress that like Razor’s was sleeveless, but the skirt billowed around her instead of clinging like Razor’s. Wendy was even wearing a ribbon around her neck to make her contrast to Razor’s outfit that much more apparent. Gerry wondered how long it took them to coordinate—but just like preparing the meal, they made it seem effortless. Gerry looked in on the dinning room and was amazed at the spread laid out. He helped prepare a little, but seeing everything finished was still something.

“Dinner is served,” Wendy announced.

* * *

  
It wasn’t as bad as Gerry feared. Razor behaved themself, probably per Wendy’s instructions, and conversation was of the usual painfully stilted getting-to-know-you variety while cutlery clattered on plates.

Then time for dessert came and Wendy brought out a photo album along with the tray.

“We should really get to work,” Gerry said, standing up.

“But gelato!” Razor protested, laughing a little. “It’s homemade.”

Jon eyed the album. “Maybe just a little.”

The cellophane pages of the album crackled as Wendy opened it while Razor passed out the small dishes of gelato. Jon leaned over for a closer look. “Oh my.”

“Yeah,” Razor agreed. “My hair used to be out of control. You don’t want to know how much hairspray went into that.”

“I think by definition that makes it _extremely_ in control, then.”

Razor glanced to Gerry. “I like him.”

The next page had Razor standing with Gerry against a brick wall covered in the remnants of old band flyers. Razor was squeezing him tight to their side and grinning, Gerry was looking away, embarrassed, and pointing to a stud in his ear. ‘First piercing!’ was written in Wendy’s looping cursive across the bottom of the Polaroid.

“Are they all instant camera shots?” Jon asked, intrigued.

“Mostly,” Razor said. “Taking rolls to get developed was such a fucking hassle. These were always more fun.”

“No tampering with them, either,” Gerry added.

“This isn’t our album of lewds, don’t worry,” Razor said, completely misunderstanding. Wendy laughed and lightly hip checked Razor for even mentioning it.

“And on that note,” Gerry stood up again. “We must retreat to the talk business.”

“Yes.” Jon rose and collected his bag from where he had draped it over the back of his chair. “Thank you for dinner. It was... actually quite lovely.”

Wendy smiled and dipped in a wry little curtsy. “And you’re actually not as much off an asshole as I initially thought. Good to have you, Jon.”

Gerry could hear Wendy and Razor whispering to one another as they left. Razor laughed. There was no telling what that was all about, but Jon practically raced him to Wendy’s office and shut the door behind Gerry himself. Jon eyed the chain of gum wrappers next to the plastic bag on the desk. Gerry hadn’t given him enough time to comment on it during the initial walkthrough.

“Long day,” was all Gerry said. “I got bored.”

“Right.” Jon moved to the coffee table and laid the contents of his bag out on it instead. 

“You should have told me you were bringing tapes,” Gerry said. “We’ve got players. Would’ve saved you some space.”

Jon paused before setting the clunky old recorder in the middle of the file folders. “I rather like the weight of this one. It’s... strangely comforting.”

“Whatever helps you get your cardio in,” Gerry said, staring at the items covering the table. That bag must have weighed a ton with everything in it.

“Where to begin?” Jon looked just as lost as he did.

“First, how much do you know about the Stranger?”

Jon looked at him blankly. “Is that some sort of fringe publication?”

“One of the Fears?” Gerry laughed in disbelief. “The thing the Institute gathers intelligence on?”

Jon frowned. “The Magnus Institute—“

“Yes, yes, I know what the Institute _claims_ it does,” Gerry said, holding a hand up to stop the spiel completely. “But that’s for the people who wander in off the street to give statements. You’re the damn Archivist, Jon. You’ve got to have _some_ inkling of what’s really going on after this ‘worm woman’ you mentioned.”

Jon was silent. He stared at his feet for a bit before looking at Gerry again. “You said whatever happened to Sasha... Whatever she... _is_ now... is worse.”

“The Not-Them.” Gerry nodded gravely. “It does what it says on the tin—replaces people completely. It’s, well, _Not-Them,_ but everyone in their lives believes it is.” 

“Why?”

“Because that’s what the Stranger does, Jon. The Fears all have many names, and it’s also known as I-Do-Not-Know-You. Get it?”

“I think...” Jon looked agitated. “I think I could really use a smoke.”

“You’re not leaving this room.” Gerry pointed to the bag of gum. “Trust me, even if you step outside, Wendy will smell the smoke on you and there go all those points you just earned with her tonight. Suck it up and listen.”

Jon grumbled, but relented. He ended up choosing a stick of cinnamon to chew on while Gerry continued.

“I think Gertrude mentioned something about it being bound to a table once.” Gerry frowned and rubbed the eye tattoos on his knuckles. “It’s hard to remember exactly, but I _know_ I saw the table in passing somewhere before—while we were traveling together. Had a weird design on it and an empty slot up top.”

“We had a table like that delivered to the Archives not long ago...”

“ _No_.” Gerry’s arm went up to point at Jon with such sudden fierceness there should have been a cartoon ‘whoosh’ to go with it. “Leave it.”

“What?” Jon glared at him indignantly. “I was only saying it’s there in Artifact Storage, so it’s safe.”

“Good. Keep it that way.” Gerry said. “I don’t know anywhere near enough to tell you how to properly go about dispatching the thing.”

“The thing that currently looks like Sasha,” Jon added. 

“Well, not exactly.”

“What?”

“It has a perverse way of replacing people,” Gerry said. “It erases the old and makes something new. All records of them are replaced with the new version, even in the memories of people close to them. The only exception is old analogue media.” Gerry picked up one of the tapes for emphasis. “It can’t seem to affect this stuff.”

The revelation shook Jon very badly. “But...”

“I know.”

“Fine,” Jon said, scowling with grim determination. “Then I’ll just look up what old records I have involving Sasha and this ‘Not-Them’ at the Archives, gather all evidence and—”

“Jon.” Gerry gave him a ‘come on’ look. “It’s had plenty of time to play cuckoo in the nest. Whatever statements you’ve already read on it are likely all you’ve got now, and by that I mean I hope you remember them well. I can guarantee you Not-Sasha’s late nights were from them destroying any evidence of its other iterations or the real Sasha James, unless it happened to miss something due to Gertrude’s strategic misfiling.”

“Excuse me, _strategic?”_

“Please don’t tell me you honestly believe Gertrude Robinson was just a doddering old woman going ‘oh lawks, lose me own head next’ as she stuffed statements—sometimes from long before her tenure, if that—in the wrong files? She made me help shuffle a bit so even _she_ couldn’t know where some of them went. I’m guessing those were particularly important.”

“I... Well, I certainly believed that at first, if I’m being honest.”

“And now?”

Jon sighed heavily and sat back on the couch. “Now I don’t know _what_ I believe.”

“That’s as good a place to start as any, then.”

“With what?”

“The Truth—capital T, as in Terrible.” Gerry went to the liquor cabinet. If Jon didn’t even know what the Stranger was it was going to take a lot more than gum to keep his nerves steady. He glanced back to Jon, who was staring up at the ceiling like it held all the answers.

“Want anything?”

“Whiskey.”

Gerry nodded and grabbed two glasses.

* * *

Jon didn’t ask many questions as Gerry gave him a brief introduction to the Fears. He just drank his whiskey—still with the cinnamon gum in his mouth, so it must have tasted like very diluted Fireball—and stared at nothing much of anything as Gerry went down the list.

Gerry expected more push back and skepticism, but perhaps Jon’s experience with the Corruption and the discovery of Gertrude’s body had opened him up to accepting that he had unwittingly signed up for something terrible—something he couldn’t very easily walk away from.

“And finally there’s the Extinction,” Gerry said, winding to a close. “Or End-Of-The-World, but it seemed like there was some debate if that one even counts yet. Or is fully manifested, or at full power if it is—but people are surely out there trying to help it along. The Flesh was young too once, like I said. Factory farms and all that spurred it on... are you still with me there?”

Jon blinked back into focus and looked at Gerry. “It’s a lot to take in all at once.”

“Well, you’re the Archivist,” Gerry said, finishing off his whiskey. Once he got going he barely even touched the single glass he poured. The same happened with Jon. “You of all people need to know this stuff.”

“Yes.” Jon nodded slowly. “It certainly would have been nice to know going in... and Sasha?” There was an awful note of hope in his voice. “There’s really nothing left of the old Sasha?”

Gerry winced. “Not unless you can find some old recordings or Polaroids Not-Sasha missed. They’re probably the only way you’re going to convince the others... which leads me to why you even believed me in the first place.”

“It was something Michael said.”

“Uh-huh.” Gerry folded his arms. “Before it stabbed you?”

“Yes, actually.” Jon looked Gerry in the eye. “It said they’re lying to me.”

“And you believed it?” Gerry was about to bring up the person Michael stole away when echoing laughter filled the room. 

Jon had gone rigid and was staring at something just behind Gerry.

“Why wouldn’t he?” Michael said. It was leaning in an open door that used to be the liquor cabinet just behind Gerry. Michael smiled at him. It was very close. “Don’t I have a trustworthy face?”

Gerry had no idea what to say. In the corner of his eye he saw Michael wave Jon away with one hand.

“Run along, Archivist,” it said. “Gerry and I need to talk.”

Gerry glanced at Jon and nodded. He watched the door to make absolutely sure it led into the proper eggshell white hallway beyond before looking back to Michael. Its door had vanished, and it picked up the colorful gum wrapper chain off the desk while Gerry stared at it in disbelief.

“What happened to not being with me?” Gerry demanded.

“Being in close proximity to you is not the same as being _with_ you, seer.”

”You just called me Gerry.”

Michael shrugged, but Gerry noticed how its eye twitched. “The Archivist doesn’t need to know what you are just yet.”

“What do you _want?”_

“To see what you think of—” it gestured in distaste at the files and tapes Jon had left behind. Jon had taken his tape recorder back with him, but Wendy had another in the desk. “—all _that_. The anticipation was too great to stay away. I’m just dying to _know_.”

Michael couldn’t quite cover its mouth with its hand as it laughed at its little Beholding joke without keeping its hand low, only letting the tips of its sharp fingers brush its face.

Gerry stared at it.

Time. A few hours outside could be days or weeks or nothing to Michael. Did it think it over? Come to a new conclusion? Or was it toying with Gerry all along?

Gerry could barely breathe for all the words and thoughts vying for dominance in that moment. There were too many questions, too many things he wanted to scream, and Michael was just standing there twisting the gum wrapper chains in impossible ways around its fingers.

So Gerry ignored it. If Michael wanted his opinion on Shelley, Gerry would have to do the reading first. He locked the door to the office and walked across the room to start going through the files. Michael remained where it was, twisting the gum wrapper chain into an impossible cat’s cradle that Gerry could only stand to glance up at for a split second.

He opened Jon’s obviously stolen folder baring the Institute’s logo. ‘For internal use only’ was stamped on the front.

The very first page was Michael Shelley’s old staff file, complete with photo ID.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffhanger! Sorta. Jon’s read the stuff already so there’s no need for him to hang around.
> 
> I’m gonna be trying to gather together all fanart for this fic to date and link it at the end of the appropriate chapter, so look out for that. 
> 
> If there’s anything you haven’t linked to me via a comment in the fic before, let me know!


	11. Michael (Shelley)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Borrowing a page from [The Timeline of Theseus](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24018289/chapters/57784525) (which is well worth the read) on Spiral Timeline Fuckery here.

Michael Shelley looked very much like Michael, but _wrong_ —or rather, it was the other way around. Gerry only knew the Distortion’s version.

The first picture was Michael Shelley’s initial badge photo for the Institute. Gerry was stunned by how young he looked when he started, and indeed his records showed a lot of accelerated learning that justified his initial hiring. His certifications were impressive, but Gerry kept going back to the photo.

Michael Shelley’s blond hair was much shorter than Michael’s, with only had a slight waviness it, and his large eyes were a watery blue. He was cute in a harmless guy-next-door sort of way, which the Distortion never quite got right in public. It was hard for a wolf to wear sheep’s clothing when the wolf was actually an elongated nightmare creature that was all sharp angles, swirls, and headache inducing laughter. 

Gerry still didn’t get why he fell so hard for the bastard.

Young Michael Shelley looked startled in his ID photo, like the person who was taking it told him to smile at the very last second and he was such a first-day bundle of nerves he was instead stuck with that deer in the headlights look on his badge. Gerry knew that was exactly the case as he stared at the picture. He checked the image against the entity sitting on Wendy’s writing desk. Michael was pointedly ignoring Gerry in favor of continuing the twist the gum wrapper chain into new and far more intricate shapes that it wound around its fingers.

Gerry went back to the file.

There was a sticky note covering the initial employment date with neat, cramped handwriting that had to belong to Jon. It read, “Trying to photo copy destroyed the machine, so this is the original. Please return later.”

Gerry peeled off the note and had trouble making sense of what he was seeing. He turned the page over in his hand, but there was nothing special about it. The paper looked a little old, but printed text of any age shouldn’t be able to shiver and scramble before his eyes like all the key dates pertaining to Michael Shelley were doing. It was a blur of black that briefly showed only a legible eight, then a zero where that used to be, and then a nine—until Gerry could no longer stand to look at it.

He looked up at Michael. “Are you doing this?”

Michael twisted its wrists around and wove its own fingers into the game of cat’s cradle it was playing. It did not look up at him. “All I’m doing right now is this.”

Gerry shook his head and kept going through the files. There were years of personnel notes with the dates all as fucked up as the first page, but each one showed Michael Shelley remained a model employee regardless of the fucked up timeline of events. There were receipts here and there on travel expenses, never anything extravagant, and minor injuries that also never came with any explanation. Those were Gertrude’s files, alright—largely unhelpful, because the real information was either between the lines or somewhere else entirely. 

Copies of old photos were thrown in for good measure, grouped several to a page. Gerry could get a rough estimate of the time frame in each just by the clothing and hair styles of the other people in the pictures, but Michael Shelley was the one constant. Other assistants looked older and more worn down in the group photos, their smiles more forced or absent altogether, but while Michael Shelley clearly grew older, there was a point where he just... _stopped_. Like he was frozen in time. He looked about Gerry’s age in every subsequent picture afterwards, and was always smiling brightly, even as the Archival staff dwindled until it was just him and a scowling old lady against the world. 

The only way that could even begin to make sense was if Michael Shelley both had no idea what the Archives were truly all about _and_ was some kind of immortal at the same time.

“How—”Gerry started to ask, but was startled by finding Michael suddenly perched on the arm of the office couch.

“I told you time is an illusion, did I not?”

It picked up the copy of the very last photo. It was Michael Shelley and Gertrude Robinson standing in the Institute lobby dressed for warm weather. Michael had his arm around Gertrude, who looked ready to break away the moment the photo op was done. It harrumphed and let the page flutter down into Gerry’s lap.

Gerry picked it up and took a closer look. Something was off about Michael’s eyes in the photo. He wished he had the original so he could properly enlarge it, but squinting would have to do. There was a subtle but unmistakable swirl in Michael Shelley’s eyes. Gerry went back through the other photos and paid special attention to Michael Shelley’s eyes, but all he could tell was that the ‘frozen’ Michael Shelley had different eyes from the one in the early photos and ID.

“He was already marked,” Gerry exclaimed.

Michael rolled off the arm of the couch so it was sitting directly next to Gerry. “Which brings us to the chicken and egg conundrum of whether that gave Gertrude the idea for what she did to him, or if what she did to him was simply always going to happen and merely echoed backwards as the walls folded in on themselves—and Michael Shelley.”

Gerry thought about sliding over as he goggled at Michael, but remained where he was—side by side, a little too close for comfort.

“The walls of what?”

Michael grinned unpleasantly and reached over to close the file. There was nothing more to see there besides Gertrude’s terse final note about an accident in Russia that led to Michael Shelley’s death. It tossed the file aside, and from the corner of his eye Gerry saw the folder slide across the coffee table before it fell into the floor and scattered papers everywhere.

Michael looked Gerry in the eye—on purpose.

“I came to a conclusion,” it announced. “If this is going to hurt me regardless, then you might as well know exactly how it feels, seer.”

All Gerry had to do to stop it was look away from those swirling eyes.

He didn’t.

Gerry desperately wanted to know the rest of the story, and Michael _let_ him look and see. 

It was as much a trap as any of its doors, Gerry knew, but he still accepted the invitation.

* * *

Gerry was in a hallway—is in a hallway, will be in a hallway, _is_ the hallway—and already he regretted letting himself look into whatever the hell he was witnessing. It was a vision of something—a ritual, had to be—somehow stretched beyond the limit of what he knew of any one point in time or space, and it indeed hurt to gaze upon, but Michael Shelley was walking just ahead of him.

Gerry followed.

Michael Shelley had a map that made no sense, written on a material best not contemplated, and at every turn he consulted it and turned as if it wasn’t just a jumble of nonsensical lines.

He was already marked. He saw the way forward with clarity he wasn’t aware of—and the fact it made no logical sense was the key.

The hall turned to mirrors. Gerry was not reflected in any of them. Only Michael Shelley was—and he paused just long enough for Gerry to wonder if he saw another figure in the distance of one such reflection before Michael Shelley slammed his fist into the glass to reveal a new path.

He had done this several times before, but after a while Michael Shelley stopped noticing the blood or the way his hands throbbed.

But _that_ time was different.

Gerry shielded his eyes against the light that poured out as the glass shards fell away and Michael Shelley stepped through. The last of the broken pieces hanging from the empty frame-turned-doorway teetered and fell. The walls around Gerry groaned while the floor beneath him feet shifted.

So close.

That’s always how it went, Gerry thought. Every ritual so close to realization, but something always happened.

And That Time it was Michael Shelley that happened—cast into the heart of the Spiral because dynamite just wasn’t enough. Gertrude knew it. Michael Shelley didn’t know anything until it was too late. He deluded himself for years—about her, about the nature of the job—until he was the last pawn Gertrude had left to sacrifice in the game.

The light obliterated everything. There were many, many corridors all crashing down upon themselves, with Michael Shelley at the center. Gerry couldn’t follow, but in the nothingness Gerry was there, unable to do anything but listen and watch as the roar of the collapsing structure that was everywhere and nowhere mingled with the screams of the human being trapped in its core—grasping its core, _becoming_ its core.

Everything was white. The white was composed a combination of too many colors, noises, and sensations to count.

The pain was indescribable. It filled Gerry’s senses until he was certain it would obliterate him, but it wasn’t his memory, nor was it a dream.

He could stop it anytime he chose. It only felt right to see it through to the end.

* * *

Gerry blinked.

The glow filling the room faded. Gerry felt like he’d just let go of a live wire. He felt like he should be dead after that—or at the very least unconscious.

Michael was staring at Gerry, its face inscrutable and still too close.

“Was I screaming?”

“That was Michael Shelley.”

Gerry was struck with an awful realization. He was still conscious because witnessing the terror of those final moments was better than anything he had just eaten in real life.

He felt sick.

“You should have just told me the story.”

“The end result would be the same,” Michael replied. “We can only do as our nature demands, _seer_.”

Gerry thought about the woman Jon mentioned, the one Michael had stolen right in front of him. He thought of the bandage on Jon’s throat. Questions, so many questions. There were always more fucking questions, and the Watcher was never sated.

So Gerry didn’t ask, he just leaned into Michael.

“The hospital,” Gerry said, the feeling of nausea giving way to lightheadedness. “You warned me away from Gertrude. I remember that now. Said she chews people up and spits them out, and I was looking more than half-chewed.”

Michael slid its arm around Gerry and placed something on a coffee table. The gum wrapper chain was now an impossible to reproduce origami cat made of many different bits of colorful crumpled paper—all jagged angles with odd accents of swirls just like Michael. The cat on the table with its feet splayed and its tail held high.

“I’ve been thinking quite a lot,” Michael said, drawing its arm back so its hand was dangling in Gerry’s lap. “Were it not for Michael Shelley, any encounter we ever had would not...”

“End well?”

Michael murmured something that might have been an affirmative.

“So he colors how you think and act now,” Gerry said, exasperated. “Is that so bad?”

Michael idly traced its finger up and down Gerry’s leg as it stared off into space. “It is when there are things set in motion that cannot be stopped.”

“What things?”

Michael dug its finger into Gerry’s knee just enough for him to feel the sharp edge pressing into the pupil of the eye tattoo visible through the tattered fabric of his pants. “Many things, seer.”

“Don’t tell me you’re worried you can’t protect me from it all...”

“I do not worry.” Michael’s tone was petulant.

Gerry simply nodded, taking that as an affirmative. They sat in silence for a bit. Gerry stared at the mess made of the papers Jon brought over. Michael stared at god only knew what—probably things not even Gerry could discern with Beholding’s blessing.

“You should stay the night here,” Michael said. “Study all you like.”

“What about you?”

A new door appeared. “I need more time to think.”

Gerry couldn’t hide his disappointment. He thought they were getting somewhere. Did Michael expect him to be more horrified at the Michael Shelley-Gertrude Robinson connection? Because it _was_ horrifying, but it was... well, it was Gertrude. She was a practical, stone cold bitch, willing to sacrifice anything to accomplish her goals—including people.

Still seemed horrible to do it to someone like Michael Shelley, and knowing that helped to explain the undercurrent of bitterness and rage Michael practically vibrated with—which might be another reason it was trying to keep its distance from Gerry.

Sure, it _might_ be, but it was hard to know anything for certain with Michael, and as Gerry awakened his old powers and more he was almost glad for that.

Gerry watched as Michael stood up slowly, unfolding itself until it was looming over the couch.

“Take all the time you need, then,” Gerry said, knowing there wasn’t much he could do or say about it. Michael would do as it pleased, with or without him. “Whatever that actually means.”

Michael smiled. “Everything and nothing.”

Gerry picked up the little paper cat—or maybe it was a tiger given how the swirls on it looked like stripes.

“Thanks,” he added. “For not leaving me hanging completely in the dark while you figure things out.”

Michael laughed as it opened the door. “You’re the seer. It’s very hard for you to be completely in the dark about anything.”

“Except you,” Gerry retorted. “It’s like staring into the sun.”

“That’s not me,” Michael said. “Not exactly.”

It left him on that very cryptic note.

“Typical,” Gerry said to the empty room. He cleaned up the mess and dug out the only tape player he could find without venturing out of the office—an old brightly colored Walkman Wendy used to use while jogging, at least until she got an iPod.

He popped the tape with that day’s date into it and pressed play.

By the end, Gerry was really starting to worry about what the hell Michael meant about ‘things set in motion.’

Gerry shuffled through the included copy of the statement pages to confirm and yes, it was just as he feared—Helen Richardson had a map of her own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sure it’ll be fine.
> 
> (No, really, that angst with a happy ending tag is there for a reason)


	12. Chuck (the Plant)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elias didn’t see this coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been waiting for this moment.
> 
> cw: eye horror, and lots of it

Gerry woke the next morning sprawled on the office couch with the Walkman still on his head and the file spread across his chest. He tried to look harder at what sparse information there was in the hopes Beholding would give him a clue as to how Michael managed to work years—or even decades, if the collection of photos were to be believed—without ever learning the truth about the Fears until he marched into the open mouth of one in the middle of a ritual. 

That wasn’t all he wanted to know, but it seemed like the easiest bit of information to glean if he could just attack it at the right angle.

But there were no right angles with the Distortion, and Michael Shelley’s entanglement with it had rendered him as much an enigma as it was. The Eye couldn’t help. The dates on the files never stopped their impossible glitched dance in print, and looking at any of Gertrude’s other old assistants sparked nothing but a feeling of loss. Gerry felt sorry for all of them, most of all the poor bastard left until last, but he wasn’t sure how much of him was left in Michael as the Distortion.

Which begged the question of why he kept looking at those files until he fell asleep last night. Whatever the answer, it was no more apparent when his mobile alerted him to a text from Wendy saying she hoped he slept well and there were leftovers in the fridge he could take home when he left.

Gerry rubbed his eye as he sat up, amazed Razor and Wendy hadn’t tried to break down the door during the night. He switched over to the conversation with Jon, whose icon said he was online and active.

GK: what did you tell razor and wendy when you left last night  
JS: That the research I gave you was very intensive and you would need time to yourself to sort through it all.  
JS: Good morning, by the way.   
GK: yeah you too  
GK: thanks btw  
JS: I’m very glad to see you’re not dead.  
GK: Michael and I have a complicated thing going on  
JS: So I gathered. I’ll need that file back ASAP.

Gerry chewed on his lip as he stared at his phone. It desperately needed charging, but it hadn’t been active all night, so he had a bit yet before it died. There was a spare charger down in the shop he could use—but first, the truth.

GK: I can’t go to the Institute in person.  
GK: elias threatened me last time  
JS: What? Why?  
GK: long story  
JS: Well, he’s not here right now.  
GK: How do you know?  
JS: I needed to check with him on something, but his secretary said he was out “running errands.”  
GK: didn’t think he ever left during the day  
JS: Nor did I.  
GK: are you seriously suggesting I sneak over there  
JS: How long can it take to hand off a few files, honestly?  
GK: you really want these back NOW huh  
JS: Please. It doesn’t feel right having them off premises. Just message me when you’re here. You needn’t even set foot inside.  
GK: ok ok be there in a few

Gerry couldn’t help but laugh as he slipped his mobile into his pocket. Seeing Michael in person last night had probably spooked Jon far more than the thought of someone discovering he took out hard copies of Institute documents, so he couldn’t blame him for wanting to get them back in hand so they could be safely stashed away again. As if the can of worms that was the truth about Michael Shelley could be resealed once more. 

Gerry took one last look at the fucked up dates before putting the files and everything else Jon brought in the plastic bag from the convenience store. Gerry slung it over his shoulder, doubled back to put the little paper cat in his pocket, and headed downstairs. He could come back for leftovers later, for the time being he just wanted to get to the Institute and back as fast as humanly possible.

It was a pity he missed Razor, who was already off to one of their piano lessons, but couldn’t hurt to cut through the shop just for a second to grab his phone charger and say good morning to Wendy.

It was a little early in the day yet, and the shop was quiet. Gerry emerged from the back room to find Wendy alone with a customer.

Only something was wrong.

Wendy was behind the counter, her eyes wide and her posture rigid. Leaning across the counter, his eyes locked on hers, was Elias.

Gerry dropped the bag. He started to run to break it up—pull Wendy away, tackle Elias, one or the other—when a rustling from behind Wendy made him skid to a halt.

Chuck was moving. There was no writing it off as a trick of the air conditioner that time. The plant’s entire body was twisting downwards, sinuous as a snake, while the bulb that usually kissed the ceiling slowly turned towards Elias.

And Elias was so focused on Wendy he didn’t notice. Tears streamed down Wendy’s face as Elias combed through her mind, his eyes glowing as he did it right fucking there in the middle of the shop for anyone to stumble upon, but whatever he saw was apparently juicy enough to make him throw all caution to the wind. Gerry’s hands curled into fists. He wanted so badly to jump him right then, but Chuck was hovering just over Wendy’s shoulder. Could he see? Smell? How did a plant sense what was happening at all? 

Gerry crept closer.

“It can’t be,” Elias hissed. “That would mean...” he slammed his fist on the counter rather than finish that sentence. Wendy flinched. Chuck moved in for the kill.

Elias blinked and broke the connection with Wendy, looking more shaken and upset than Gerry had ever seen him in his life. Elias’s mouth dropped open in shock as he saw, too late, the monstrous plant-thing hovering right in front of his face. Gerry would never forget that look—or what followed.

The bulb atop Chuck opened wide, the petals unfurling to reveal rows and rows of little teeth, and Chuck struck. The petals enclosed Elias’s head down to the neck, the bulb the perfect shape for it. Elias’s screams were muffled as he flailed and beat his fists against the thick, snake-like body of the plant.

Wendy shook her head, finally snapping out of it. Her eyes went wide with fresh horror.

“Chuck, no!”

Gerry considered doing something, but it was Elias, so he watched as Chuck slowly pulled away from the Head of the Magnus Institute, making a horrific sucking sound all the while. Gerry expected there to be no head when it was finished, but that wasn’t what Chuck ate.

Elias staggered backwards, his hair a mess, and landed on his ass before collapsing face-up on the shop floor. Blood oozed from the hollow pits the plant made of his eyes.

“Chuck!” Wendy screamed, flipping from horrified to incensed on a dime. She pounded her fist into the trunk of the plant. “Spit those out! They’re probably poison!”

Not what Gerry expected her to say, but he had to agree.

Acting like a dog that had eaten something it shouldn’t, Chuck did as Wendy asked, disgorging the eyes with a shower of slimy plant spittle.

Gerry ran forward as the eyes bounced across the floor, coming to a halt just under the display by the entrance. He had just enough presence of mind to flip the front sign to closed, lock the door, and pull the shade down before crouching down to scoop them up.

The eyes were gritty from rolling all the way across the shop. Gerry fought down the wave of revulsion as he felt them give a little under his fingers, but far worse was the certainty they were looking at him even then. He grabbed the first empty container he could find—one of the small, decorative pots sold as an option for repotting succulents—and popped the eyes into it. 

Gerry turned just in time to see Chuck slowly withdraw back to the position he was in before he struck, returning to the way he looked for years while Gerry worked there—weird, but totally harmless. Chuck shook its leaves off one final time, and was still.

Gerry felt like such a fool. He stood, clutching the pot of eyes between his shaking hands so no light got into it.

“Wendy, what the _fuck_ was that?!”

“Well...”

Elias groaned and sat up before Wendy could answer. He tenderly felt the space around his empty eye sockets, stopping just shy of sticking his manicured fingers past the drooping eyelids.

“Fuck,” Elias said softly.

Gerry had never heard him curse before. Not so much as a ‘blimey,’ and suddenly he was dropping f bombs. Losing his eyes to a plant monster definitely warranted it, but...

But that wasn’t the Elias Gerry knew. The realization was like a slap to the face so strong Gerry nearly dropped the pot containing the eyes. They weren’t his eyes, either. After a night of fuck-all in the way of useful insights, Beholding was suddenly being far too helpful.

Gerry was afraid to put the pot down, so he dug out his mobile with one shaking hand while the eyes glared up at him. Gerry could feel the rage wafting off them as he phoned Jon, so he avoided meeting their disembodied gaze.

“I need you to come down to the shop,” he said. “And bring an empty A23-i container from Artifact Storage.”

“What happened?”

“Hard to say,” Gerry replied with complete honesty. “You need to see for yourself. Now.”

* * *

Gerry didn’t like that the container for the eyes, which came complete with a liquid solution to keep them moist and preserved, was see-through, so he wrapped it in bouquet paper until the feeling of being angrily watched went away.

Elias was sitting at the work table, still not in good shape. Wendy was hovering nearby, but the most he would allow her to do is offer him water to drink. Once it was clear the person who forced his way into her memories and the person who collapsed sans eyes on the shop floor were not the same, Wendy was very forgiving about the whole ordeal.

Gerry thought she would‘ve been more upset about the idea of someone possessing the ability to invade her thoughts, but then she kept an attack plant, so maybe she was more accustomed to weird shit than he ever realized.

“You should just destroy them,” Elias said, sounding on the verge of tears. “Get rid of him once and for all.”

“We don’t know what that will do,” Gerry replied. “It might create a power vacuum and fuck everything up.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon said, still not up to speed. The jar was taken from him the moment he arrived, and no one paused to explain the tableau in the back room. “Get rid of _whom_ , exactly?”

“Jonah fucking Magnus,” Elias spat, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the jar—not that he could see where it was.

Jon looked at the wrapped jar incredulously. “The founder of the Magnus Institute? But those are—“

“They’re not my eyes,” Elias snapped. “I have no fucking idea what he did with mine.”

Gerry had a horrible thought. “I think I do.”

Jon shook his head as if he was having a bad dream and trying desperately to wake up. “Can someone _please_ tell me what the hell is going on here?”

Wendy cleared her throat and tentatively raised her hand.

“I might be able to shed a little light on things.” She glanced to Elias, who still looked like a scene out of Event Horizon. “But first we really need to at least get those dealt with, maybe even get you to a doctor.”

Elias boggled in her general direction. “After what I—what _he_ just did?”

“That wasn’t you,” Wendy said simply, going to the first aid kit. “I know all about being unable to control your own actions. I’m guessing you don’t—or, um, didn’t—see the same things he did, either, because I have a feeling that’s what freaked him out so badly.”

“What do you mean?” Jon asked.

Wendy whispered what she was about to do before beginning to clean around the blood from Elias’s face. He still flinched, but allowed it. Gerry marveled at how everything down to his posture was different as he slumped over the work room table on one of their metal stools.

“Oh, you know how I said that incident from thirty years ago has been on my mind a lot lately?” Wendy said, casual as anything. “It involved this meteor that took control of a local doctor and his family, made them do terrible things so it could gather knowledge.”

Everyone was silent as she moved from from cleaning Elias’s face to dealing with the sockets themselves.

“The meteor was an eye,” Wendy said. “Only about the size of a basketball, but it was like someone plucked it from the head of a giant and flung it out into space. That’s more or less the case since it was all that remained of its planet.”

“How do you know this?” Jon demanded.

Wendy only paused slightly in wrapping gauze around Elias’s head as the compulsion hit her. “Because it transcribed its story to the doctor,” she said. “Badly, I might add. We stole the manuscript along with Chuck and a few other things from the mansion before it blew up. The meteor—whatever it was before it became a meteor, I mean—destroyed its planet in its thirst for knowledge, but it still wasn’t enough. I guess whatever Mr. uh—“

“Magnus,” Elias supplied.

“Whatever he saw when he looked at what I knew hit a little too close to home.” Wendy shook her head. “Weird. I never considered there were monsters just like whatever the meteor originally was here on Earth, too.”

“That’s pretty much the Magnus Institute’s whole reason for being,” Gerry said. “Knowledge is power, etcetera.”

“Excuse me!” Jon slammed his hands on the work table, making the jar of eyes rattle. “But just how can you calmly regale us with a grossly abridged tale of cosmic horror, yet still be terrified of a spiders?!”

Wendy gave Jon a withering look as she pinned up the bandages. “Spiders are _creepy_ , Jon.”

Jon sat back down and sighed heavily. “You’re right.”

“Hey, um, Gerard?” Elias glanced around, not sure exactly where Gerry was in the room since he had fallen silent. 

Gerry obliged him by moving forward. “Gerry.”

“If you’re sure.” Elias sounded doubtful about friendship privileges. “Look, I... everything is happening very fast, and I know apologies mean fuck all when I was never in control for all that happened, but... still, I’m sorry—to all of you.” He wrung his hands together, frowning at how soft they were, before turning back to Gerry. “Also, what was that you said about knowing where my eyes are?”

“Oh, right.” Gerry laughed. He flicked the jar containing Jonah Magnus’s eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “I guess there’s nothing keeping me from going back to the Institute now, is there?”

Wendy cleared her throat. “I should still take Elias to a hospital, cause I am so not a doctor.”

“And what are you going to tell them?” Jon asked. “There was a terrible vacuum accident?”

“Sure, why not?” Wendy gently put a hand on Elias’s arm to help guide him to his feet. “So when you show up with his actual eyes it’ll be a little less strange.”

Jon looked to Gerry for help.

Gerry shrugged. “Might as well. We can just say he was extremely high at the time.”

“That works,” Elias sighed. “Let’s go.”

Gerry stopped Wendy as they all gathered at the door. He ended up carrying the eyes while Jon took the files. Elias and Jon went on ahead to have a hushed but heated conversation over the fact Jon’s boss was very not much who anyone thought he was—there was a lot of gesticulating.

“We _really_ need to talk about Chuck and everything else more later.”

“You could always try the Institute,” Wendy said, eyeing Jon and Elias warily. “I’m pretty sure a friend of ours made a statement years ago, back when he came to visit.”

“What?”

“Yeah, Dave Miller.” Wendy dug her mobile out and started texting Razor. “This would have been October of ‘97. We asked him not to, but I’m pretty sure he went there before he even came to meet us.”

“And where is Dave now?”

“Dead,” Wendy said tersely. Her mobile chimed as she got a reply. “Razor is meeting me at the hospital. Let me know how the eye hunt goes. Oh, and here.” She handed Gerry his spare charging cable. He hadn’t even thought to look for it after all that happened.

“How are you so _calm?”_

It wasn’t meant to be a compelling question. Judging by the way Wendy smiled at him, maybe it wasn’t.

“I learned a long time ago nothing really matters,” Wendy said. “So I just take things as they come and try to make the best of it.”

“What, you’re saying you made peace with the knowledge that if the world that meteor thing came from ended in destruction, this one probably will, too?”

“Yup,” Wendy said brightly. She patted Gerry on the shoulder. “That doesn’t necessarily mean it’ll be in _our_ lifetime, but if it is—well, I’m content.”

Gerry gaped at her. “Okay, but if given the chance to stop it, or at least postpone it, would you?”

“Gerry, why do you think we blew up that mansion?” Wendy shook her head. “Anyway, we should go. I’m not sure Jon is getting along well with the real Elias.”

Sure enough, Jon had shoved Elias, and Elias shoved him right back.

“Oi!” Gerry called, walking at a leisurely pace to catch up to them. “Knock it off, you two.”

“You don’t get to call me a ‘blind git’ when you’ve currently got no eyes,” Jon snapped.

“Just stating the facts, mate,” Elias retorted. “It’s why you’re the bloody Archivist.”

“I was most qualified for the job!”

“You really weren’t.”

“What?!”

“Boys, boys.” Wendy pushed Elias and Jon apart. “You’re both pretty. Now, let’s be off. We’ve all got our roles to play here.”

They split up. Wendy and Elias went to baffle the doctors at the closest A&E, while Gerry and Jon went to see where Gerry’s troubling bursts of insight would take him next.

Gerry felt for the origami cat in his pocket along the way. It helped comfort him as he stepped into the Institute while cradling the jar containing Jonah Magnus’s eyes in his arm.

Still maybe not _the_ weirdest day of his life to date, but it was definitely on the shortlist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please welcome original Elias Bouchard to the cast. Everyone’s still in a bit of shock (except Wendy) but the full weight of the situation will come crashing down on everyone’s heads next time!


	13. Turning (Tables)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything goes wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might not go how you think.
> 
> cw: a little more eye horror, and violence

“They removed you from the group conversation,” Jon said in a whisper.

Gerry fumbled with his lock picks and felt one of the tumblers slip loose. “Couldn’t you have told me this _before_ we got to Elias’s office?”

“My mind was elsewhere!” Jon raised his voice as much as he could while still whispering. They hadn’t even risked detouring by the Archives before heading up to the top floor, so there was no telling what his assistants were plotting. “I’m sorry if dealing with the revelation my employer was, in fact, the body snatching founder of the Institute made me forget to check my phone!”

“Right.” Gerry rested his head against the door a moment. “Of course. I’m sorry.”

He stood back up and took his picks from the lock. The wrapped jar containing Jonah Magnus’s eyes was on the secretary’s desk, who was currently out to lunch. They didn’t have time for this.

Gerry kicked the door in while Jon gasped in dismay.

“They already think I’m a bad influence,” Gerry said, stepping inside. Jon picked up the jar, holding it like a bomb that might go off at the slightest jostling, and followed.

Gerry looked over the shelves of carefully arranged antique junk, all of it drawing attention to the original portrait of Jonah Magnus himself overlooking the office. The eyes in the painting didn’t quite have the same piercing effect as they used to when the man—or spirit, or whatever he was reduced to—was currently floating in a jar held in his Archivist’s arms.

“I never appreciated just how many eye decorations there were around this place until now,” Jon muttered.

“All by design,” Gerry replied.

“You mean he could see _through_ them?”

“Didn’t you feel it?”

“Well, yes, but I...” Jon trailed off into tense silence as he revalued all his memories of the Institute and its eye motif. Gerry left Jon to his thoughts as he picked through the things on the shelves, looking for anything that might hide a mechanism. His fingers hovered over a first edition of H.G. Wells’ _The Country of the Blind and Other Stories._

“He wouldn’t,” Gerry whispered to himself.

Gerry pushed the book. Something clicked.

Jonah Magnus would.

The bookshelf slid back to reveal a small vault, more like a panic room with a few extra shelves holding things that were a bit too lurid even for a man who kept bones on full display. There weren’t anywhere near as many jars of eyes as Gerry remembered in his dream, which was a relief. He didn’t have to think about which ones belonged to Elias, he just knew, but once he picked it up he found a handwritten label on the underside that made him wonder about Jonah Magnus even more. A bit more searching, and they were liable to find his master plan neatly outlined with bullet points somewhere, but there just wasn’t time to comb through everything before his secretary returned.

“What should we do with these?” Jon asked, holding up the wrapped jar.

“I’m afraid to put them out of sight,” Gerry said. “Never mind destroying them. If Jonah Magnus is favored by the Eye, making jelly of them will probably just make it pick a new favorite, and if he was grooming you into to becoming the Archivist, that doesn’t bode well.”

“But I’m already—”

“It’s much different than just overseeing the Institute Archives, believe me.”

Jon shifted the jar in his arms. “So we just lug this thing everywhere?”

“For the time being.”

“What if he’s still... aware?”

“He probably is.” Gerry paused before stepping out of the secret room. Something on the shelf nearest the door caught his eye. Gerry hesitated to touch it, but when a grounding poke didn’t send shockwaves of wrongness through him, he picked it up. It was a black circular disc with eight slots folded over it in what looked like a dormant locking mechanism. The jeweled eyes set into it twinkled in the low light.

Jon leaned closer. “Is that supposed to be a spider?”

“Looks like it.”

“Just leave it,” Jon said, repulsed even by the heavily stylized image. “Carrying around two sets of eyes is bad enough.”

Gerry ignored him and let the bookcase close. He considered taking something else from the main office, some other little trophy as a fuck you to Jonah Magnus, but having his eyes was enough. Gerry tucked the spider disc under his arm and followed Jon back into the reception area, closing the door on its broken hinges as best he could.

“What now?” Jon asked.

“I don’t suppose you could convince one of your assistants to pop down to the hospital to deliver Elias’s eyes to him...”

“I’m not sure even Martin would agree to that at this point,” Jon sighed. “Running off without explanation earlier may have destroyed what little credibility I had left.”

“You didn’t make up an excuse?!”

“I’m bad at improvising!” Jon protested. “And I couldn’t exactly tell them I was just heading down to the shops with a container from artifact storage.”

“You work in an Institute that catalogues stories of the weird and unusual.” Gerry pressed a hand to his head. “You could make up literally any excuse under the sun for why you, the Head Archivist, needed to personally collect a sample of something.”

“And that’s why I couldn’t think of anything!” Jon snapped. “It’s too much! This is all just a _bit_ too much for me to deal with all at once, alright?!”

Jon had given up all pretense of keeping his voice down, forgetting they were not supposed to be caught anywhere near Elias’s office, and was shouting. 

“I hear you.” Gerry backed off—literally, giving Jon plenty of room to breathe. “I’m sorry. But we can’t have this discussion here. We’re running out of time.”

“ _Where_ , then?”

Gerry glanced down at the spider disc he looted from Magnus’s secret stash. Artifact Storage was on the same level as the Archives. Gerry had a terrible idea.

“Tell them we’re coming.”

“What?”

“Your assistants,” Gerry said. “They’re planning on ambushing you about your behavior lately, anyway. Only Elias isn’t going to be able join them for it now.”

“I shouldn’t even bother asking how you know this, should I?”

“Get close enough to the Ceaseless Watcher and it rewards you with sudden, unpredictable bursts of terrible insight.” Gerry said as he led Jon into the stairwell. “Feels a bit like having your head dunked in ice cold water.”

“Ugh.” Jon shuddered. “I’m glad that’s not m—ah!”

He stumbled on the stairs—or something tripped him, Gerry couldn’t know for certain. He caught Jon before he go headfirst down them, but one of the jars was lost in the process. The artifact containment jar was shatter proof, but hitting every step on the way down to the Archives was enough to dislodge the lid and send the eyes of Jonah Magnus rolling across the bottom landing.

The commotion drew attention, of course.

The door to the Archives opened.

Not-Sasha was the first one through.

“Oh my god,” Martin gasped. “Are those... _eyeballs?_ ”

Gerry saw the twisted grin on Not-Sasha’s face from above—it would also be the last thing Jonah Magnus saw. They brought their foot down hard on the eyes, crushing them like bugs underfoot. 

“Sasha, what the fuck?!” Tim yelled.

“We don’t know what those things are from!” Not-Sasha snapped, playing their reaction off as a terrified but reasonable split-decision. “I panicked!”

Gerry felt the ripple of power as whatever was left of Jonah Magnus dissipated. Jon screamed, drawing all eyes up to the landing above. Tim and Martin called his name. Not-Sasha just gaped as Jon stared up at the ceiling, his eyes glowing like beacons as the Eye wasted no time choosing a new Favorite.

“What did you fucking think would happen?!” Gerry yelled at the Not-Them.

Not-Sasha pointed at him and screamed, “This is all that maniac goth’s fault!”

Gerry wasn’t in any position to argue that one, even if they were only playing the role of concerned and horrified assistant. Overplaying it, honestly. He doubted the real Sasha would be that shrill. As Martin and Tim rushed up the stairs, Gerry pushed Jon into them so they had no choice but to catch him. That didn’t make him look any better, but it gave him the opening he needed to duck past them. He had to abandon the jar with Elias’s eyes along the way, but it was helpfully labeled, and he just had to trust Martin and Tim to leave it be while he dealt with the Not-Them.

He meant to only give Not-Sasha a glimpse of the table’s centerpiece as made a break for Artifact Storage, but the opportunity was there—they were so shocked by the sight of it in his hands that he clocked them in the nose before bolting through the door into the Archives. Not-Sasha shrieked with pain and gave chase.

Good. He had them focused solely on him. That would buy Martin and Tim plenty of time to figuring out what was happening with Jon while Gerry cut through to where the table was being kept. He had no fucking idea what he would do next, but he never let that stop him before.

Not-Sasha tackled him against the Artifact Storage door. Gerry let them get a punch in, kneed it hard in the stomach, and grabbed their badge when they doubled over. While they pulled his hair, he yanked their head forward with the lanyard, the scanner not caring that Not-Sasha’s head collided with the door before the locks disengaged and it hissed open. Not-Sasha stomped hard on his foot to try and stop Gerry, but his steeled-toed boots absorbed the worst of the blow. 

Gerry shoved Not-Sasha back, taking their lanyard with him. The idea was to lock them out, but Not-Sasha dove after him as the door closed, catching their foot in the process. Gerry heard the snapping of bone as they collapsed just inside Artifact Storage. Not-Sasha howled, more in frustration than pain.

Gerry left them there on floor and moved toward the table in the center of the room. He held out the spider disc. It was made to fit perfectly in the slot atop the table.

Not-Sasha started to laugh. It was a breathless, ragged, and ugly sound. Gerry glanced over his shoulder. They were still sprawled on the floor, left foot twisted at a grotesque angle.

“Do you even know what will happen if you slot that into place?”

Gerry stared at it. “ _Do you?”_

Not-Sasha grit their teeth, fighting hard against the question to no avail. “Nnnnyou get her back!”

“Cool.” Gerry let the centerpiece slot into the table.

The Not-Them screamed.

The legs folded in the centerpiece snapped out and sank into the table, digging into the thickest strands of webbing carved into the table. The jeweled eyes glowed. A white light flowed out from the center of the table, illuminating the carvings so the web pattern was more apparent than ever—and at the same time a glowing pattern appeared around Not-Sasha. They kept screaming, the sound warping as their form blurred.

The webbing around the Not-Them constricted and pulled something separate from the body on the floor, dragging it up and away. The Sasha that remained sprawled there was not the same as the one Gerry had pummeled, but she had all the same injuries.

“Shit,” Gerry whispered.

He looked at the ID badge he had stolen. The picture on it rippled until it was the same woman on the floor, the same woman he had met that day at the flower shop. He remembered her clearly at last. The woman he had just been in a fight with really didn’t look much like her at all, now that he really thought about it.

Then again, the thing now standing separate from Sasha James didn’t look remotely human at all. The Not-Them was still screaming, the webs still squeezing every last bit of Sasha out of them, and all that was left was a blank template—a gray-skinned, stretched out humanoid shape that reminded Gerry of Michael if it were robbed of all color and definition beyond long limbs and long fingers.

The glow from the table faded. Gerry looked down to see a very large, fat black spider sitting in the middle of the table in the place of the centerpiece. It wasn’t a carving. It was alive.

The spider scurried under the table before Gerry could react, leaving the slot vacant once again. He was half-tempted to crouch down to see if it was still there, or if it had vanished completely, when the Not-Them uttered a laugh that sounded like many different voices layered over one another.

“Fine,” they said, flexing their long fingers. “So you got her back. Beaten and broken and completely unable to run. Well done, you.”

Sasha groaned as the Not-Them dug their very much intact bare foot into her back. Gerry held still, not sure what to do. No matter what he did, he would never make it over in time to stop them from dealing a grievous blow.

“Always watching,” the Not-Them’s voice briefly shifted into a tired sounding man’s voice before shifting back into warped layers. “Never _thinking_.”

A hand with fingers even longer than their own reached out and seized the Not-Them by the arm, yanking it away from Sasha.

“You’re right.” Michael laughed as it spun the Not-Them around to face it. “It’s terribly annoying, isn’t it?”

It glanced to Gerry. The smile on its face didn’t bode well for anyone.

“Watch this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Michael just can’t stay away for long, can he?


	14. (Yet Another) Twist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hits don’t stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been waiting for this even longer.
> 
> cw: continued violence

Watching Michael and the Not-Them fight was like staring at a magic eye puzzle that was never going to make sense. Neither moved like a human, as neither had anything approximating proper bones. Limbs twisted around each other as they grappled, and the only way Gerry could hope to keep them straight was by the way Michael’s riot of colors clashed with the grayscale of the Not-Them’s natural template form. 

The noise was worse. Michael’s echoing laughter and the Not-Them’s layered voices shrieking in incoherent rage blended into a cacophony that made Gerry’s eyes water.

Michael was making a conscious effort to keep the fight away from Sasha, who was barely conscious, but the struggle had other risks. One of the containment shelves rattled ominously as the nightmare tangle of limbs crashed into it—Gerry wasn’t sure who had the upper hand at the moment, but he took his chance to dart forward and grab Sasha.

“This really isn’t a good venue!” He yelled, not sure Michael could hear him as the Not-Them howled and tried to twist out of its grasp. Gerry ran for the door, intending to only take Sasha with him.

Something sailed past him through the open door and crashed into the stacks. The Not-Them shrieked and scrambled away as if the shelves full of statement burned them, but there were few places for them to run in the Archives that weren’t chock full of more files. Centuries of horror stories were down there.

“So much awful definition,” Michael said, strolling after the Not-Them. It wasn’t totally unharmed. Its clothes were torn and the eye searingly bright liquid running down its face might have been blood, but it was still smirking, still acting completely on top of the situation. “It’s agony isn’t it, to be constantly surrounded by so much that is _known?_ I don’t know how you stood it, being Sasha James. Coming here day in and day out. Such a dedicated spy you are! Perhaps you’ll get a medal. Posthumous, of course.”

The Not-Them laughed and swayed on its feet, in much worse shape than Michael. Black ichor dripped from the crater of a gouged out eye and oozed into a grin that was little more than a knife gash across its face.

“It’s the _deception_ , you cackling fool!” They hissed. “Being surrounded by people who think they know you is all the insulation needed against this place!” They staggered back, nearly falling into another shelf, and away again, moving like they were drunk. “And it felt _good_ walking right into the Eye’s citadel, smiling and laughing with the Archivist and his minions while destroying everything they could have used to stop us!”

Gerry took the opportunity to lay Sasha down the table used for writing statements, careful of her ankle. She was out cold, but breathing steadily. 

The Not-Them was still ranting. “And it’s too late now! We don’t need Elias! We don’t need the Archivist! You can’t stop what’s coming!”

Michael tilted its head at the Not-Them like a curious bird. “When did I ever say I cared what I-Do-Not-Know-You does?”

That hit the Not-Them harder then any previous blow. “Then why are you fighting me?!”

Michael idly examined its ichor stained nails. “Why would I need a reason for anything I do?” 

The Not-Them howled with rage. Gerry stuck his fingers into his mouth and whistled before they could charge again. Michael had its fun, and did an excellent job of softening the Not-Them up for him, but enough was enough.

The Not-Them turned to face him. Gerry took a deep breath and stared into its remaining pearlescent eye. He hated willfully reaching out to Beholding.

He hated the feeling of Beholding reaching back even more.

“I _know_ you,” Gerry said. “I see you. There’s no more hiding now.”

He kept talking, plunging the figurative dagger in deep, but his words were drowned out as the Not-Them started to scream. The horrible keening grew higher in higher in pitch as its form warped and stretched until there was simply nothing left.

Gerry’s ears were still ringing after it was reduced to nothing but a stain on the carpet—easily dismissed as an ink splotch. It wouldn’t be the first time the carpets would have to be deep cleaned to get out the remains of something supernatural, nor would it be the last.

The noise was definitely going to draw more people, and much as he worried about Jon’s condition, Gerry felt hollowed out after that little display of power. He didn’t want to explain himself to the rest of the assistants, nor did he want to go back and forth over whether or not the nature of Jonah Magnus’s possession methods mean anything could be done with Elias’s original eyes. He just wanted out of the Institute.

Michael pointed to the hall leading to the street exit. “We should go. She’ll be safe now.”

Gerry laughed. ‘Safe.’ Right. When the Stranger was clearly working up to a goddamn ritual on top of everything else that was happening. But the Distortion lied, and Gerry followed it out into the alley where people tended to kip out for a smoke during work hours. Gerry desperately wanted a cigarette himself after all that. He reached into his pocket, but he had no gum, only the origami cat twisted out of gum wrappers. It was a little bent, but still good.

He looked up to see Michael had conjured another bright yellow door in the brick wall across the way, but hadn’t left yet. It was just staring at it as if debating whether or not to go.

“Is this how it’s going to be now?” Gerry asked. “You pop in just to save me or comment on the situation and then pop out?”

Michael tilted its head thoughtfully. “That would be easier, yes...” It gave him a sidelong glance. “And it wasn’t _your_ rescue I came to just then, mind you.”

“Ah.” Gerry nodded slowly. “Right. Sasha.”

Michael nodded.

Gerry didn’t bother arguing. He was too tired, and there was a hunger gnawing at him that he knew no amount of leftovers from Wendy’s place would fill.

That reminded him...

“Oi,” Gerry called. “Quick question.”

Michael paused as it reached for the door knob and looked back. “Always when I’m leaving.”

Gerry shrugged. They both knew what he was doing. Stalling was just part of the dance.

“Your pronouns,” Gerry said. “Are they it/its, he/him, both, or what?”

Michael laughed. “Ask me the next time you see me.”

It wrapped its hand around the brass doorknob and froze.

Gerry moved closer—close enough to hear the faint rattle of the lock. “What?”

“It’s...” Michael tried both hands. The door still wouldn’t budge. “I-it’s nothing.”

Gerry moved a little closer, until he was almost close enough to touch Michael.

“It’s _your_ door isn’t it?” He leaned around to get a better look, but it appeared no different than any other door Michael had flitted in or out of in the past—same bright yellow paint job, same brass door knob. “How can it be locked?”

“I don’t...” Michael was visibly desperate. It threw its weight into the door. The frame shuddered. Still nothing. “I...” 

Something changed when it put its hand on the door knob that final time. It looked back at Gerry, its spiraling eyes huge with fear. 

“I’m sorry.”

Gerry dove for Michael. His hand went through it as its scream echoed through the alleyway. The image of it stretched like an analogue TV set pulled far out of synch, splitting into afterimages of red, blue and green before winking out into a white light.

Gerry tried to snatch the mote of light out of the air. He opened his hand and found the origami cat. Had he ever put it away? Had he dropped it? Had he been holding on to it the entire time?

What did it fucking matter when Michael was gone?

The door opened with a creak while Gerry was still staring at the cat. He clenched his fingers around it protectively and stumbled back. 

The person standing in the threshold was not Michael, but a woman dressed in a smart pantsuit. There was a horribly morose look in her spiraling eyes.

Gerry felt light-headed. He wanted to scream. Instead he swallowed hard and said, “You mind if I ask your pronouns?”

The Distortion smiled sadly. “She/her will do, I think.”

He recognized the voice from the tape Jon gave him. Helen Richardson, the real estate agent—the one who drew her own map. Only it wasn’t her anymore, not really—no more than Michael had been Michael Shelley.

Gerry’s eyes welled with tears. His mind buzzed with questions. All he could say was, “Why?”

The Distortion— _Helen_ —considered that for a moment before answering, pressing a long, painted fingernail to her chin.

“I thought I might try being a person,” she said. “But, unfortunately, Michael Shelley can’t be that person... for a variety of reasons. Too much baggage, for one.”

“So that’s it.” Tears streamed freely down Gerry’s face. “Michael’s just gone?”

Helen peered at him as if debating how to answer again, but what Gerry got in the end was no answer at all.

“Go home Gerry,” she said, stepping back into the halls. “It’s been a very long day for everyone.”

The door clicked shut very quietly, rippling back into brickwork and old flyers in an instant. Kicking the wall where it had been accomplished absolutely nothing, it didn’t even make him feel better, but Gerry did it anyway.

He stalked out into the street and hailed a cab. The driver asked him who died. Gerry snapped back about the man’s brother who disappeared eight years ago without thinking. Completely uncalled for, but it meant the rest of the ride home was in total silence. The sizable tip Gerry left would not make up for the nightmares the driver would have later about exactly how his brother died—or the random goth off the street who somehow just _knew_ it.

Gerry didn’t like what he was becoming, but he felt even worse for for Jon. He didn’t bother checking his mobile as he walked up to his flat. He never got around to charging it in all the confusion, so it was dead. Just as well. Anyone who wanted him would just have to come find him in person.

Gerry dug out his keys, realizing he never let go of the damn cat the entire way back, and fought with the last deadbolt as always. He paused before opening the door, considered just turning around, emptying his bank account, and going back on the lam like the old days—but what was there to run from now except himself?

Wendy and Razor would be upset. Jon and Elias both needed all the help they could get. Gerry couldn’t just _leave,_ not now. People needed him. What a strange feeling. And what did _he_ need? The impossible, apparently.

Gerry shook his head, muttered a curse under his breath, and stepped inside.

Someone was on him in an instant, catching him completely off guard. Gerry tensed as adrenaline flooded his system, ready to fight—but it was just a hug, not an attack.

The other person was sobbing. They clung to Gerry so tightly that pulling away enough to get a good look at them was difficult.

It couldn’t be.

“Michael?”

What Gerry saw made no sense—not after what happened in the alley. But the blond hair was unmistakable, as were the blue eyes with the spiral in them that he remembered from the pictures.

It wasn’t Michael. Not exactly. Not the Michael Gerry knew, anyway. 

It was Michael Shelley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, then!
> 
> Things will slow down for a bit now.


	15. Communication (Breakdown)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really earned that slow burn tag.

Was it a reunion, or was it a first meeting? Gerry had no idea. Either way, Michael clung to him and murmured incoherently in between sobs.

“Bones. Breathing.” Michael gasped, like just saying the word made him conscious of the act again. “I can’t. It’s too much. I’m sorry.”

He repeated the apology over and over as Gerry gently guided him back inside. Michael flinched when he kicked the door shut, but Gerry’s hands were tied—or pinned, more like. 

“It’s okay,” Gerry said softly. Michael looked up at him. The gash on his head that had previously oozed a vivid oil slick of bright colors was now just bloody. Gerry frowned at the bruise that went with it. “Do you, uh, remember me?”

“I remember everything,” Michael wailed, his eyes welling with fresh tears. “That’s the problem!”

The wave of horror that washed over Gerry as he looked into Michael’s eyes was not his own—not at first, not until he realized exactly what Michael remembered.

Faces. Names. They wandered within the Distortion’s halls until they were lost—completely and utterly lost as they were consumed by the Distortion. Or they were slowly driven mad from without, toyed at like mice by a bored and particularly malicious cat. The horror at the fates was very human—and it was so very, very sweet.

Gerry exhaled a shuddering breath and looked away. Shame coiled in his gut along with the feeling of contentment.

“We need to get you patched up,” he said, trying to focus on absolutely anything else. “Let’s go to the kitchen.”

Michael sniffled and loosened his vice-like grip around Gerry a little. “You tasted it, didn’t you? My fear?”

There was nothing accusatory in the question, but Gerry pretended not to hear him just the same. Michael finally let go of him, flopping into a kitchen chair as if he wasn’t sure how his own limbs worked anymore. It was the same chair Gerry sat in when their positions for rendering first aid were reversed. No fake flowers this time. The container was shoved under the table.

“It’s alright,” Michael said, watching as Gerry gathered materials from the kit. He laughed, but it sounded strange without the echo—soft and breathy. He was so much like the Michael Gerry knew, but so _different_. His emotions were all right there on the surface, and that threw Gerry more than how very normal he was compared to the nightmare parody the Distortion made of him.

Michael still looked miserable and exhausted when Gerry turned around, but he managed a weak smile. Michael wiped his eyes with fingers that were still long and thin, but well within normal human limits—and no longer ending in sharp points. The hands of a pianist or artisan, not a monster.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” Gerry said. “Fed off you, I mean. I’m sorry.”

Michael shrugged. “If you need to feed, then feed. You shouldn’t starve yourself.” The pained edge his smile took on hurt Gerry to even look at—still nothing like the old Michael, but these new jagged edges were more like bits of broken glass than knife points. They cut both ways. “At least there’s something left when you’re done.”

“Yeah,” Gerry said. “Mostly nightmares.”

“They’re still alive,” Michael retorted. He winced as Gerry dabbed his forehead with antiseptic. “Don’t try and play ‘who’s a bigger monster,’ Gerry. You’ll lose.”

Hearing Michael say his name nearly made Gerry drop the bottle of antiseptic.

“You’re not a monster anymore,” Gerry insisted. “At worst you’re touched by the Spiral.”

“It doesn’t change what I did.”

“That was the Distortion.”

“It was me and I was it,” Michael said, folding his fingers together for emphasis. He looked at his hands, away from Gerry. “Twisted together. It hurt. Speaking frankly hurt. Feeling anything for you _hurt_. Now we’re apart and...” He struggled to find his breath as much as he did the words to continue. Michael slumped forward. “Now it hurts in a different way.”

Gerry knew Michael didn’t mean the leftover injuries from the clash with the Not-Them. Michael was human again after time spent completely divorced from the constraints of the condition. Now every color looked wrong, his voice sounded wrong, his bones felt like they’d been smashed and hastily reassembled with many key pieces left out, and breathing—he had to breathe _so much_. All the damn time. Constantly. He was so tired. Tired and hungry, and the little bit of solace gained from knowing he no longer had to feed off people’s sanity didn’t make it hurt any less.

Gerry wished Beholding would ease the fuck up a little. He gently pushed Michael’s hair back and applied a patch to the wound on his forehead. The hair fell back over it immediately when Michael looked up at him. His eyes welled with tears once more.

“This just keeps happening.”

“What do you—” Gerry shook his head and started over. “Care to elaborate?”

“I mean I keep getting torn apart and put back together worse than I was before.” Michael pulled his hands apart and stared at them. They looked very pale under the kitchen lights. “I can’t be the same Michael Shelley I was before. He didn’t know anything, and now I know too much. I can’t be the Michael you knew, because what it felt was just me, but angry and twisted—and it really, really did not want to deal with things like love, believe me.”

Gerry put the crumpled paper cat in Michael’s trembling upturned hands. “So who made this?”

Michael looked up at him in confusion. “I did, but—”

“There.” Gerry held up a finger to silence him. “That’s it. _You_ did. Don’t think about it too hard. The Spiral fucks everything up, I know, and it doesn’t make any sense, but I also know I’m in love with the person who made this cat.”

Michael started crying again. “I wasn’t a person then.”

“You are now, aren’t you?” Gerry smiled. “So it retroactively counts. I’m still in love with you—whoever or whatever you are, it’s the core of you I love. I get that now.”

Michael threw his arms around him, sobbing outright—but with joy. Gerry hugged him back tightly.

“Fuck,” Michael muttered into Gerry’s chest, and hearing him curse was even weirder than hearing him say his name. Michael laughed. “I can’t stop crying.”

“It’s okay.” Gerry rubbed his back. “It’s a very human thing to do.”

“So is kissing.”

Gerry broke the hug to look at Michael, who was blushing.

“Do you want to?” Gerry asked, not thinking of if it counted as a compelling question or not.

Michael nodded eagerly, still blushing. “Since before I was just me again.”

Gerry laughed. He seriously doubted Michael had ever been ‘just’ anything, no matter what anyone said, but then he was biased.

They kissed.

The first was soft, tentative. Gerry could still taste the tears on Michael’s lips. He wondered what he tasted like and was glad no answers popped into his head. That was for Michael to tell him later, if Gerry could only remember to ask.

Gerry kissed Michael again and immediately forgot the question and every other pressing matter at hand—if only for a little while.

The world would come crashing back down on them soon enough, but for a moment everything was perfect.

For once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sure, everything is on fire elsewhere, but that’s a problem for later.


	16. Wants (and Needs)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taking a little more time out to breathe—and readjust to needing to breathe, in Michael’s case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot joins us by phone.
> 
> cw: reference to a little more eye horror

Gerry felt like he was forgetting something. It was hard to think when, after moving from the kitchen table to the living room couch, Michael almost immediately fell asleep on top of him. 

“So romantic,” Gerry whispered as Michael drooled on his shirt, oblivious to everything. He envied him that.

Gerry wasn’t sure how much time passed afterward. He couldn’t sleep, but listening to Michael’s steady breathing helped keep Gerry from worrying too much about what was next as he stared up at the ceiling. 

The sound of keys in the lock made Gerry tense as, for one terrifying irrational moment, he forgot Wendy and Razor both had copies of their own. He smacked his forehead as he finally remembered his mobile. He never put the damn thing back on the charger. It was still in his pocket, battery completely dead.

Razor opened the door. They were holding a reusable shopping bag in one hand, a ring with enough keys on it to count as a weapon in the other. Gerry waved from the couch, not wanting to dislodge Michael, and watched as Razor’s expression journeyed from surprise, relief, and finally settled on very justified anger.

“Gerry, what the fuck?!”

Michael barely stirred at their yelling.

“It’s hard to explain,” Gerry said. “But I promise it’s not what it looks like.”

“Uh-huh, sure.” Razor stalked into the room, slamming the door shut behind them. Michael jerked awake with a gasp.

Gerry saw the confusion in Michael’s eyes turn to terror as he failed to register where he was—images of twisting hallways flashed through Gerry’s mind, and it wasn’t the memory of them that made Michael flail and scream, it was the fact he was outside them, adrift in a strange place that wasn’t strange enough, and cut off from vital parts of himself. He forgot he was human again.

Gerry grabbed on to Michael to keep him from falling into the floor. He said his name—softly, insistently—until Michael fully came back to reality.

Michael buried his face in Gerry’s chest. “Oh my god.”

“I know.” Gerry stroked his hair. “It’s okay.”

Gerry looked over at Razor, who was gawping. “Like I said.”

“At least charge your fucking phone.” Razor stomped into the kitchen to unload the bag they brought over. “Wendy and all your weird new Institute friends are worried sick. Except Jon, but he’s a whole new level of weird now. No matter what he said, I had to come see for myself.” They held up a plastic container. “And bring these leftovers.”

Leave it to Razor to be furious with him but still make sure he was eating.

“Wait.” Gerry helped Michael up, bracing him as they both rose from the couch. “What did Jon say?”

Having unloaded everything on the table, Razor had moved on to texting on their mobile. They didn’t look up as Gerry and Michael joined them in the kitchen. “That you were both fine and we should give you some time.” 

Razor’s mobile rang almost as soon as they sent the text. They helpfully put it on speaker.

“Seriously, what the hell, Gerry?!”

“Hi Wendy,” Gerry said. “Sorry about everything.”

Michael picked through the containers of leftovers in bemusement while Wendy ranted on the other end of the line. 

“Do you have any idea what’s been happening over here? Cause I thought we saw some weird stuff when we were younger but... okay, wait, never mind. That’s on me.”

“Honey,” Razor cut in. They handed Michael a fork so he could eat straight from the containers. His first meal after becoming human again, and it was cold leftovers. At least it provided him a distraction from everything.

“Us,” Wendy amended. “Right. We all ended up hiding things from each other, I get it. We all thought we were protecting each other from the truth, which very clearly backfired. But Gerry, Jon and his assistants just piled in here out of nowhere, and one of them has a broken ankle, which at least makes sense for A&E, but then Jon... he... he... what is _with_ these Institute people, Gerry?!”

“What do you mean?”

“They had this jar with them,” Razor said, miming the general shape of the thing. “It had Elias’s fuckin’ _eyes_ in it, and whatever they were preserved in definitely wasn’t formaldehyde. Smelled salty, though.”

“He just popped them back in!” Wendy interrupted, her voice breaking with horror and disbelief. “Like it was nothing! Didn’t say a word to the doctors, just... just...”

Razor made a popping sound with their mouth.

“Not funny!” Wendy cried.

“It was a helluva thing to witness,” Razor said. “The weirdest part is that it worked. At least I think it did. They were still monitoring the situation when I left.”

“They say it’s like Elias never lost them,” Wendy said, still sounding shaken. “I think one of the doctors is having a breakdown over how it shouldn’t be possible. The police are here. Everything is a mess.”

“Hold on,” Gerry interjected. “The police?”

“It wasn’t us,” Razor said. “But Jon walking in off the street and doing an eye transplant with his bare hands didn’t exactly go over well with the day staff. He disappeared in all the confusion, though.”

“Officer Hussain knew Jon from before somehow,” Wendy added. “But mostly she was annoyed he got away.” 

“She seemed to think we helped him with that.” Razor laughed.

“The very idea.” Gerry shook his head, knowing that was exactly what happened.

“See, this is why I never wanted to give a statement!” Wendy yelled. “I always knew something was off about the Magnus Institute!”

“You’re not wrong,” Gerry sighed.

“Hey, those archival assistants aren’t so bad,” Razor protested. “I like Sasha in particular.”

Michael perked up. “Is she okay?”

“She’s fine,” Wendy replied. “Wait, is that Michael?”

“Yeah,” Gerry said. “He’s here too.”

“Absolutely demolishing the leftovers,” Razor added.

Michael blushed. “Sorry.”

“I can make more food anytime,” Wendy said. “So are you two _together_ , then?”

Michael froze, a forkful of meatloaf in his mouth. He looked to Gerry, eyes wide with fear that somehow the past few hours—confessions, kisses, and all—somehow hadn’t counted. Gerry understood that feeling well.

“Yeah,” Gerry said, his cheeks going red. “We are.”

Razor winced and held the mobile away as Wendy squealed with delight. “I’m so _happy!”_

“Ditto.” Razor smiled and shook their head, ever the more restrained one. “Congrats.”

“Oh! One last thing,” Wendy said. “Sasha told me to tell you it’s not your fault, Gerry. You did what you had to do to fix things, so don’t worry about it—whatever that means.”

“I understand.” 

Gerry grimaced. Absolution or no, he still felt guilty about Not-Sasha’s injuries carrying over to Sasha. He checked himself over as an afterthought, but couldn’t find so much as a bruise from his part of the fight with the Not-Them. That didn’t bode well.

“I’ve gotta go,” Wendy said. “They’re done running tests on Elias and I’m apparently the only one who doesn’t feel weird hanging around him. Poor guy.”

“Love you,” Razor cooed at the mobile.

“Love you, too!” Wendy chirped. “Bye Michael! Bye Gerry! Charge your phone!”

“Alright, alright,” Gerry groaned, getting up to do just that. Once it was on the charger and had enough power to boot up, the screen lit up with an impressive number of missed calls and messages. His muttered curse drew Razor over to investigate.

“Isn’t it nice to feel needed?”

“I really just wanted a moment’s peace,” Gerry sighed.

Razor patted him hard on the shoulder. “Yeah, well, the Stones wrote a whole song about getting what you want.”

“I didn’t think you went for that mainstream stuff.”

Razor grinned and jabbed a finger at him in a mock threat. “Respect the classics, Gerry.”

While Gerry started going through his many waiting messages, most of which were variations on ‘where the fuck are you’ and ‘what the hell is happening,’ Razor poured Michael a glass of water and sat it down next to the nearly empty food container in front of him.

“Geez, man,” they said. “You act like you haven’t eaten in years.”

Michael flashed her an exhausted smile. He could probably use at least another eighteen hours of sleep at least. “You have no idea.”

Razor held their hand out. “I’m Razor. I practically raised Ger over there. Pronouns are they/them.”

Michael took their hand and shook. “Michael. He/Him. I’m Gerry’s... boyfriend, I guess?”

“Unless you want me to call you something else,” Gerry said, glancing up as he cleared out his full voicemail inbox. “Partner. Paramour. Whatever.”

Michael chuckled. “Boyfriend is good.”

“This is gonna sound weird,” Razor said. “But fuck it, this whole day is weird. You play the piano, Michael? You’ve got the hands for it.”

Michael looked down at his hands in surprise. “Er, no. I mostly just do craftwork.”

“Oh, yeah!” Gerry moved forward and picked up the coat still draped over the back of the kitchen chair. “He did this!”

Michael bowed his head to hide how much he was blushing as Gerry turned the coat over to show the intricate needlework on the back of the coat. It was adorable, how much he blushed.

Razor whistled and ran their fingers over the swirling lines.

“I should really try making something new,” Michael said. “Now that I’m... I mean, now that we’re together.”

Gerry grinned. “I’ve still got the box of practice flowers under the table. Wanna learn how to make your own flower crown?”

Michael’s eyes lit up. “Yes, let’s!”

Contact with the outside world was re-established. Things were more or less under control for the time being, and Gerry had a feeling Jon had gone to ground some place safe. It would’ve been nice if he hadn’t made such an public spectacle of returning Elias’s eyes, but maybe doing it in a hospital was Jon’s way of hedging his bets in case something went wrong. Gerry didn’t want to think of what made Jon so sure it would work in the first place, but he knew that all would be made clear whenever they met back up in person again. He and Jon were essentially all the Ceaseless Watcher had left on the playing field now, so there was no avoiding it for long.

That didn’t mean he had to rush into testing the new division of power.

Razor hung around long enough to make sure Gerry ate a little himself before gathering up the empty containers to take back home. After that it was just Gerry, Michael, and an introduction to making flower crowns. Michael caught on quickly, and was very pleased with himself as he dropped the finished product on Gerry’s head.

It was getting late by then. Putting such a pleasant capper on everything made Gerry almost feel like the earlier whirlwind of events was just a bad dream.

If only.

Gerry helped Michael walk from the kitchen to the bedroom. Michael kept apologizing for still being unsteady on his feet, and Gerry kept telling him it was understandable to have trouble readjusting to moving in normal human dimensions. Adjusting was going to take time, and Gerry would be with him the whole way.

Gerry put his flower crown with the paper cat on the bedside table, pleased with his growing collection of treasured things, and climbed into bed with Michael.

No visions haunted him that night, but Gerry already had an unpleasantly clear image of what was coming based off the Not-Them’s defiant last words.

He needed to reach out to Jon in the morning, but that was tomorrow—all problems for Future Gerry.

For the time being, Gerry clung tightly to Michael as he slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “But that’s medically impossible!”
> 
> So says the poor doctor who’s pacing like a caged animal after reviewing tests that show everything with Elias’s reclaimed eyes is somehow fine.
> 
> Worry more about how Jon knew it would work... and made it work.


	17. (The New) Normal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to the Archives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s almost like Gerry is Archivist by default now. We’ll just have to see what Jon thinks of it all.

Michael was still asleep when Gerry woke, and would probably sleep most of the day if he let him, but the last thing Gerry wanted to do was leave him alone during such a delicate adjustment period. Then again, dragging him around on the errands he had to run—up to and including touching base with Jon about the Eye—somehow seemed worse.

Gerry reluctantly nudged him awake. Michael blinked and smiled when he saw him. “Hey.”

Gerry kissed his forehead. “Hey.”

Michael yawned. “Back to reality today, hmm?”

“Unfortunately.” Gerry idly twisted a lock of Michael’s hair around his finger. What he wouldn’t give to trade his annoying bursts of insight for stopping time, if only so they could spend more time in bed together.

Michael eyed him thoughtfully. “What are you planning?”

“I’ll have to stop by the Institute first,” Gerry said. “There are some things I need to get before I meet with Jon.”

Michael sighed and curled up closer to Gerry. “There’s no escaping that place, is there?”

“Not for me,” Gerry said gravely. “Not anymore.”

Might as well accept that he truly belonged to the Ceaseless Watcher now—and make the best of of a truly shitty situation.

* * *

The only person in the Archives was Martin, and he was too busy cleaning up yesterday’s mess to notice he had visitors. 

Gerry was so focused on the tangle of monsters at the time that the didn’t think just how much of a mess the fight with the Not-Them might leave behind, aside from the stain Martin had covered with a tea tray, but it figured all the knocking about the shelves was bound to dislodge something.

Martin yelped in surprise as he emerged from the shelves to find Gerry and Michael standing there.

“Hey,” Gerry said.

Michael waved nervously as Martin glared at him. There was history there. Michael hadn’t said much on the cab ride over, mostly he just stared out the window watching the mundane cityscape roll past, and Gerry watched Michael taking it all in with a strange feeling of melancholy. Michael was human again, while Gerry was afraid he no longer counted as such anymore. Then again, fear over his state of being was probably a good sign. He wondered if Jon was grappling with the same thing.

“What do you want?” Martin asked. He looked like he hadn’t slept much, if at all.

“I needed to pick up a few statements,” Gerry said. “I’m going to see Jon.”

Martin dropped the file he was holding. “You know where he is?!”

“Uh, not exactly,” Gerry admitted. “Not yet, anyway.”

Martin stared at him incredulously.

“It’s complicated,” Michael said, as if that explained everything.

Martin glared at him. “Like you just standing here as if you’re a normal person now?”

Michael winced. “Everything is q-quite odd lately, yes.”

“He’s human again,” Gerry said, moving in between them. “So just lay off.”

“Oh, of course.” Martin threw his hands up. “Then that time you threw Tim and I in your halls for being ‘inconvenient’ or whatever just doesn’t count, then?”

“No.” Michael sighed. “That’s still on me. I don’t suppose you’d believe it was a warped way of keeping you safe, would you?”

Martin shook his head. “At this point I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

“Hello?” A tentative voice called from down the hall. It was Elias. “Anyone around?”

“Case in point,” Martin grumbled under his breath before calling back. “Yes, hello!”

Elias had transformed himself overnight. Gone was the tailored suit and slicked back hair. Instead Elias was wearing jeans and a button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up. It wasn’t tucked in, either. His hair was loose, hanging in front of his eyes in places. His entire posture was different. He was slouching, his hands stuffed in his pockets. He glanced around the Archives like he didn’t feel right being there—and did a double take when he saw Michael.

”The fuck?”

Michael gave Elias the same nervous wave he gave Martin. “Hi, Elias.”

“Michael?” Elias was stunned. “But I thought...” He drew a spiral in the air with his finger.

Michael shook his head. “Not anymore.”

“Oh, thank god.” Elias rushed forward to hug Michael, but stopped short when he finally registered Gerry was standing right there. He recoiled as if expecting to get hit.

Michael glanced to Gerry, who laughed.

“I’m not the jealous, possessive type, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Elias and Michael embraced while Gerry and Martin looked on. Elias was close to tears as he said, “Please tell me you remember me. I can’t stand everybody walking on eggshells around me.”

“I remember,” Michael said with a smile. “How could I possibly forget?”

Elias hugged him again, even tighter than before, so Michael let out a little squeak of pain. Finally, Elias stepped back to get a look at him.

“Damn,” he said. “You haven’t aged at all.”

Michael blushed and looked away. “The one benefit to what happened.”

“Does that mean you’re, like, immortal?”

Michael looked to Gerry, who honestly had no idea. He shrugged.

“I... I guess we’ll see,” Michael said with a frown.

Martin cleared his throat.

“I’m going to go make tea,” he announced. “If you could all help clean up this mess in the meantime, that would be very much appreciated.”

“I’m still technically your boss,” Elias pointed out.

“Sorry, can’t hear you,” Martin said, raising a hand as he was already moving away. “Very involved process, making tea.”

Gerry picked up one of the loose statements. “I think he’s handling things very well, all things considered.”

“Everything is fucked,” Elias said. “Totally FUBAR.”

“And yet, here we are,” Michael sighed. “Just like old times.”

“There’s not much else we can do,” Gerry added. “Not until the dust settles and we know where everyone stands.” He glanced to Elias, who was swiveling back and forth in a desk chair without much enthusiasm. “I’m surprised they let you out of the hospital.”

“I discharged myself against doctor’s orders,” Elias said. “They kept waiting for my eyes to become horribly infected and melt out of my head or something, but it didn’t happen, and I got tired of being a medical sideshow, so I walked out and threw on the only pair of jeans Magnus left me.”

“Why come back here?” Michael asked.

Elias shifted in his chair so his legs dangled over the arm. “Where else could I bloody go? I’m still the Head of the Institute. Still getting emails about expense reports and payroll and shit. I remember everything about that just from having to be a passive audience in my own fucking head, so... I dunno, I don’t want to leave everybody hanging.” He looked to Gerry. “The thought of emptying my bank account and running for it crossed my mind, but between you and Jon, I don’t think I’d get far.”

Gerry blinked owlishly. “Why would we hunt you down?”

“Cause the Institute’s the seat of the Watcher’s power, and one or the other or both of you are the ones who have to tend to this whole operation now, right?”

Gerry looked at the statement in his hands and frowned. He was going to have to bring Jon an entire box full to keep him sated. Part of him still wanted to tear the entire system down. The trouble was he was apart of it now.

Gerry sighed. “You’re right.”

That didn’t mean he couldn’t find some way to reform it from within. Jonah Magnus was gone. They didn’t have to fall into the same bloody ruts he carved out.

Martin returned with a tray of mugs. He nudged Elias’s chair with his side on the way through the bullpen. “You’re too old to be sitting in a chair like that.”

“The best years of my life were stolen,” Elias whined. “Just let me have this.”

“Fine.” Martin started setting out mugs on an empty desk, but the last mug he handed to Elias personally. “Just don’t blame me when you throw your back out.”

Elias raised his mug in a toast to Martin, who ignored him and looked to Gerry.

“What do we do now?”

Gerry was caught off guard by being treated like the one in charge, but he might as well get used to it. “Business as usual, for the most part. If people come in with statements, we record them and follow-up as best we can. I’m guessing Tim is with Sasha, right?”

Martin nodded. “Her flat is a walk-up, so she needs all the help she can get while she’s on crutches.”

Gerry grimaced. “Right. Well, the next big threat to look out for is the Circus of the Stranger and their attempt at the ritual of the Unknowing.”

Martin nearly choked on his tea. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Oh, yeah.” Gerry ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t suppose Jon had time to tell you lot about rituals before everything went sideways, did he?”

Elias lazily raised a hand. “I know about them. It’s second-hand knowledge, but technically everything I know is like that.”

Gerry eyed him. “You didn’t see everything Magnus did when he used his powers, did you?”

“What? No!” Elias sat up, wincing as he pulled a muscle along the way. “I just mean from his conversations and the things he read or wrote. Whenever he did his freaky eye power thing I was stuck staring at nothing... or at the looks on people’s faces.”

Elias took a long sip of tea and frowned, clearly wishing it contained something harder. Martin obliged him by pulling a bottle from a desk drawer and handing it over. “Don’t tell Tim. Or Jon. Or... well, you’re the boss, so I guess it doesn’t matter.”

Elias nodded his thanks and spiked his tea with a generous pour of whiskey.

“I’d like to help,” Michael said, putting his hand on Gerry’s shoulder. “I can stay here at the Archives while you meet with Jon.”

Gerry put his hand over Michael’s. “Are you sure?”

Michael nodded and smiled. “This mess is my fault, after all.” He gestured to the shelves and the fallen boxes. “Besides, I remember how the Archives work, so I can help Martin until Tim and Sasha get back.”

“And we can hang out!” Elias was giddy. Gerry wasn’t sure it would ever stop being weird.

“After we’re done with all this,” Martin said, looking aggrieved at having to play responsible adult when he was the youngest person in the room.

Gerry stood up and gave Michael a quick peck on the cheek. “Then it’s settled. I just need to grab a box of statements and then I’ll be off.”

“What about the one with Wendy and Razor?” Michael asked.

“Good question.” Gerry looked over the rows of stacks. “That was one of the ones Gertrude had me hide at random. It could be absolutely anywhere.”

“It’ll turn up,” Elias said blithely.

Michael frowned. “What makes you so certain?”

Elias shrugged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep trying to picture new-old-Elias in my head and my mind rebels. It just won’t.


	18. Division (of Labor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon is the reasonable one for a change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Admiral time!

Gerry had no idea where he was going when he hailed a cab. The address that tripped off his tongue without any thought wasn’t familiar, but he knew exactly which flat to go to once he paid the fare and hauled the box out with him like it was a ball and chain made of tapes and documents. He kept shifting it from one arm to the other, even tried balancing it on one shoulder, but it always felt like it was weighing him down.

The woman who answered the door to the flat he was drawn to didn’t look surprised to see him—nor did she look pleased. Her black, curly hair had a white streak running through it made all the more apparent by the way it was pulled back. She looked Gerry up and down, dark eyes narrowing in appraisal.

“So you’re Gerry,” she said. “Jon told me about you.”

“Oh?” Gerry shifted his weight to one side, hiding his internal panic with an impatient look.

“Georgie!” Jon called from within the flat. “Just let him in!”

Gerry arched an eyebrow. “He’s not too injured to move, is he?”

Georgie laughed and stepped back to allow him inside. “See for yourself.”

Jon was stretched out on the couch with a large cat loafing on his chest. The cat’s eyes were slits of utter contentment. No wonder he couldn’t move.

“Gerry, meet Georgie,” Jon said. Georgie gave a sardonic little curtesy in greeting as she shut the door. “This lump on my chest is the Admiral.”

“And a very majestic lump is he,” Georgie added.

The Admiral yawned. Jon grimaced and turned his head away from the wave of cat breath.

“So this is your hideout,” Gerry said, looking the flat over. “Complete with guard cat.”

“I really don’t have many options,” Jon sighed.

“You’re welcome, by the way.” Georgie sat down in the recliner by the window.

Jon finally sat up, dislodging the Admiral so he could make room for Gerry and the box. The Admiral made a perturbed mew before stalking forward to investigate their visitor. He wasted no time rubbing cat hair all over Gerry’s pant legs. The hairs were very visible against the black.

“Aww,” Georgie cooed. “He likes you.”

“That’s a rare thing,” Jon added, sounding impressed. “Usually it takes him a while to warm up to new people.”

Gerry sat the box down on the couch and bent down to let the Admiral sniff his fingers. His nails needed repainting, though not quite as badly as his roots needed a touch up. The Admiral rubbed his face all over Gerry’s fingers, deeming his slightly disheveled appearance nevertheless satisfactory.

Gerry smiled and sat down on the couch. The Admiral was quick to follow, purring and kneading Gerry’s lap while Jon looked through the box of statements. Gerry was in the midst of scratching behind the Admiral’s ears when Jon closed the box and pushed it back towards him.

“You should probably keep these for yourself,” he said.

Gerry looked up. “What?”

Jon’s expression was fraught. “You’ll need them more than I will now that Jonah Magnus is gone.”

Gerry froze. The Admiral head-butted his hand impatiently, licking his fingers when he didn’t immediately comply. Gerry went back to petting him in a trance.

“So you took his place,” he said.

“And you took mine,” Jon said, tone as grave as the look on his face. He ran his fingers through his hair. There were more gray streaks than Gerry remembered. “I’m sorry.”

Gerry glanced over to where Georgie watched them from across the room, her legs curled up in her arm chair. She seemed to be dealing with everything very stoically.

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said. “I’m used to all of this. Well, not ‘this’ exactly, but you know what I mean.”

“Yes,” Gerry said distantly. It was like skimming the surface of a pond and gleaning only the faintest bit of information. To learn more he need only ask—and he didn’t want to do it. He scratched the Admiral under the chin instead. The cat’s purring kept him grounded.

“So that was how you knew what to do with Elias,” Gerry said to Jon, still focused on the texture of the Admiral’s fur.

“Please don’t remind me,” Jon groaned. “No matter how much I wash my hands I can still feel they way they gave under my fingers like peeled grapes.”

Gerry finally looked at Jon. “Does that mean you could do what Magnus did? The body hopping?”

“I’d rather you—and I mean all of you, Georgie included—kill me before I stoop to such despicable acts.” Jon closed his eyes. “I didn’t ask for this. Neither did you. So we’ll have to take care that we don’t go down the same path. Everything and everyone needs to meet its end eventually. It’s the way of things.” Jon gave Georgie a significant look. “Trying to avoid it is pointless. I know that all too well.”

Georgie nodded her approval at that.

Gerry still felt like he was missing something, but he didn’t care to reach down and plumb those depths just yet. Somehow it felt rude. “So we keep each other in check, then?”

“I’ll gladly beat sense into Jon as needed, too,” Georgie chimed in. “It’s the least I can do.”

Gerry chuckled. “You’d probably get on well with my friends. It’s too bad Wendy’s deathly allergic to cats.”

“Better make the most of this time with the Admiral, then.” Georgie withdrew a lint roller from the end table next to her chair. “We’ll dispose of the evidence afterwards.”

“Speaking of evidence…” Gerry gave Jon a sidelong glance. “Couldn’t you have waited to perform the eye transplant sans license when there weren’t so many witnesses?”

“If I thought about it for a second longer I’d lose my nerve,” Jon protested.

Gerry sighed. The Admiral yawned.

“It could be worse,” Georgie said. “They could want him on murder charges.”

“They still haven’t exactly cleared me as a suspect in the murder of Gertrude Robinson,” Jon grumbled. 

“Give it time,” Gerry said. “And try not to do anything else to draw attention to yourself in the meantime.”

Georgie laughed and stood up. “That’s easier said than done.” She walked over and gave the Admiral an affectionate little scratch on the ears, then ruffled Jon’s hair in much the same manner. “I’m going to go for a walk, maybe get some takeaway. Any requests?”

Jon smiled as he tried to smooth out his hair. “You know what I like.”

Georgie looked to Gerry. The Admiral had claimed his lap was half-asleep. Gerry wouldn’t move him for the world.

“I really need to be off soon,” Gerry said. “Er, but for future reference? I’m not picky.”

Georgie’s loud laughter made the Admiral open one eye to glare at her in consternation.

“I figured you two would be total opposites.” Georgie waved at them as she grabbed her coat. “Don’t have too much fun while I’m gone.”

They both knew the real reason she was giving them space, but once the door closed neither wanted to start that conversation. Gerry watched the Admiral sleep. Jon stared into the middle distance.

“I didn’t realize Elias—er, I mean Jonah—could spy through any eye.” Jon’s gaze was still distant as he spoke. “Now so can I.”

“I have visions when I dream,” Gerry said, offering up the information in commiseration. “I don’t know if they’re prophetic, or just my subconscious nudging me towards a certain epiphany, but... it’s not pleasant.”

“Maybe that will spare statement givers from the usual dreams.”

“What?”

Jon sighed and rubbed one eye. “Part of being the Archivist. I know that now. Just like I know Jonah Magnus was grooming me to usher in the Watcher’s Crown. That’s not going to happen now, but the rituals of the other Fears are still a concern.”

“Wait.” Gerry desperately wanted to stand up, but the Admiral was a peaceful anchor on his lap. “I don’t want to be the Archivist.”

“And I don’t want to be Beholding’s new Chosen,” Jon snapped. “But we’re the victims of a paradigm shift. There’s a balance that has to be maintained.”

“Oh, bullshit!” Gerry’s raised voice was enough to drive the Admiral off him at last. “It saw the cracks in us and rushed in to fill them, we’re not special. Beholding doesn’t care who does any of this, we just happened to be handy when Magnus got squashed.”

“And now we have to learn to deal with it.” Jon held out his hand. “Together.”

Gerry stood up. This wasn’t what he meant when he told himself he had to make the most of things. He didn’t realize he’d been made Archivist by default back then. What he wanted was to keep everything at arm’s length, pretend he was still in control. Suddenly it felt like he was drowning in the Watcher’s bullshit.

He turned to glare at Jon. “Don’t tell me you’re okay with this!”

“I’m _not.”_ Jon dug his fingers into the arm of the couch. “If I’m not careful, I slip behind other people’s eyes. I don’t know how to control it. Frankly, I’m terrified, but I’m far more worried for everyone else at the Institute. We can’t just leave them, Gerry.”

“We can do better than that!” Gerry leaned in to glare at Jon. “We can set them _free_ , Jon! All of them! No eye gouging required! They can just walk away! We can stop all of this!”

But as soon as the words were out of his mouth he knew it wasn’t that easy. He might as well suggest ripping out his own heart. Everyone else could walk away. They couldn’t. Jon stared at him with fathomless eyes.

“No,” Jon said softly. “We can’t undo what’s already been done. They were bound when they signed their contracts. All we can do now is change the terms for new hires, make sure that no one else is tricked into becoming an unwitting tool of the Eye like they were.” 

“No,” Gerry said. “Fuck no. Fuck business as usual. Fuck the Archives. Fuck the Institute. I don’t want this, Jon!”

Jon’s smile was that of a defeated man. “Neither do I, but perhaps it’s better this way. We shoulder this burden, change the system from within so it can’t be exploited, and then—”

Gerry refused to hear any more of Jon’s little speech. He stormed out of the flat, feeling the Eye’s gaze on him the whole way. He was halfway down the street before he remembered he left behind the box of statements. 

Jon no longer needed them, he could look anywhere and drink in what he saw, but the Archivist still required statements. Gerry refused to accept he had been thrust into that role, and yet he had nowhere to go but back to the damned Archives.

It was only because Michael was there, nothing more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> revision note: made a few changes to Jon and Gerry’s conversation based off later chapters


	19. (Oh Shit) It’s the Police

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Basira

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gerry’s a different sort of Archivist than Jon... just wait til he has to read a statement.

Gerry got a message from an unknown number just as he was heading into the Institute. He was greeted with an image of the Admiral staring into the camera with huge eyes and a message that read, “Don’t feel bad. You missed the bit where Jon was sobbing into the Admiral’s fur yesterday. This is Georgie btw (save my #).”

Gerry texted back his thanks for the reassurance that Jon wasn’t as cool, calm, and in control as he pretended, decided it best not to ask how she got his number, and took the stairs down to the Archives after saving Georgie’s contact info with the picture of the Admiral.

One benefit of not taking the lift was his return caught everyone off guard. Gerry took a moment to survey the scene. The shelves were more or less back in order, Elias was on his back on the statement table, and Michael was sitting by his side looking worried. Martin emerged from Jon’s office with something in his hand.

“Okay, I found them,” he said. “But you should still wait a few hours for the alc—oh, hi Gerry.”

“Elias threw his back out,” Michael explained.

“I’m dying,” Elias added.

“Jon said it was okay!” Martin exclaimed, holding up the pill. “I asked!”

“So you’ve been in contact,” Gerry said. “That’s a relief. Wait, why does Jon have pain pills?”

“Leftovers from the worm scars,” Martin said. “He didn’t like how floaty they made them feel.” He smacked Elias’s hand away as he made a feeble grab for the pill from where he lay prone on the table. “Please tell me you’re not just faking having a bad back to get drugs.”

“He’s not,” Gerry said without thinking. “He should also learn to bend with his knees.”

Elias let his hand drop. “I hate everything.”

“Just lie still,” Michael said, patting Elias on the shoulder. “The spasm will pass.”

Martin shook his head. “Anyway, Jon’s been posting cat pictures in the group chat, which is obviously avoiding the issue, but at least he’s staying in touch.” He snapped his fingers. “Oh! Right, we should probably unblock you now that Sasha is Sasha again, huh?”

“Might help,” Gerry said. “There’s a lot we need to discuss, and it honestly can’t wait until Sasha can return to work.”

Martin frowned. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“I know.” 

Gerry ran a hand through his hair. His plan to get Michael and flee the Institute was shot by finding Elias in such a state. He couldn’t in good conscience leave Martin alone to deal with him until he could move again.

That was how the police officer found them—all crowded around the table looking like they were about to sacrifice Elias. Martin yelped and shoved the single pill into his pocket.

Officer Hussain stared at them all blankly. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days, and walking in on such a weird tableau in the Archives was just one more thing for the pile.

“I’m looking for the Head Archivist,” she said, and narrowed her eyes when Gerry stepped forward. “I mean Jonathan Sims.”

“The Institute’s in the middle of restructuring,” Gerry said. “In any case, Jon’s not available at the moment.” He held out his hand. “I’m Gerard Keay.”

She hesitated before taking it and shaking. The tattoos usually had that effect. “PC Basira Hussain. I’m with Section 31.”

Section 31 explained a lot. If she didn’t know about the eye thing, Gerry wasn’t about the volunteer that information. Gerry looked Officer Hussain over. She looked unrested, her hijab slightly askew like she had dressed carelessly, and was fidgeting. 

“Do you need to make a statement?”

Basira scowled. “I’d really rather talk to Jon.”

The tension in the room was palpable. Martin and Michael exchanged looks.

Gerry was fully prepared to yank the cop’s chain about the fact he was her only option when information dropped into his mind like an ice cube, knocking him completely off guard. “This is about Rayner, isn’t it?”

Basira’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Did Jon tell you about that?”

Everyone else was watching them in anxious silence. Gerry gestured Basira follow him into the Head Archivist’s office. “Perhaps it’s best we discuss this in private.”

“Fine.” Basira practically spat the words before following along. Gerry hesitated before closing the door on the main room. Martin, the only person who didn’t know about Beholding’s power yet, was staring at him curiously. Michael and Elias were exchanging worried looks. Michael looked particularly stricken, so much so Elias had to offer a comforting hand for him to clutch.

Gerry shut the door. He loathed how easily he slipped into the role of Archivist.

* * *

“I already know about the eye incident,” Basira said as soon as the door latched. “And frankly no one in my department gives a damn.”

“Good to know Jon went into hiding for nothing, then.”

Basira sighed. “He’s too paranoid.”

“I don’t know about that.” Gerry sat down at Jon’s desk and gave Basira a distant look of appraisal. “Can’t hurt to be careful where the police are concerned.”

“Believe me, I know.”

Something in Basira’s tone made Gerry’s estimation of her rise by a fraction. A tape recorder was on the desk, already recording. Gerry had half a mind to throw it across the room, but this was what he did now—and he knew another would only materialize if he did.

Basira took the chair across from him, letting all the tension she was carrying out at once as she all but collapsed into it.

“I’ll start by saying it didn’t go well.” She rested her elbows on her knees and stared through the desk. “We lost Altman. Just... wasn’t... paying attention. Don’t know what they’re going to tell his family.” She looked up at Gerry like she half expected to find him suddenly replaced by Jon. “I guess it could’ve been worse, though. If I hadn’t talked to Jon first...” She shook her head before narrowing an accusatory look at Gerry. “But apparently he was up to his own misadventures panicking doctors in the meantime.”

Gerry turned his hands out in a helpless gesture. “I can honestly say no one planned for any of that to happen.”

Basira arched an eyebrow. “The assistant with a broken ankle, too?”

So she’d checked in on them all. Had been _consistently_ checking in on them, Gerry realized. Basira Hussain was too interested in the goings on of the Institute for her own good, and until very recently that could have ended disastrously for her livelihood.

“Long story,” Gerry said. “Why don’t you tell me yours instead?”

“Right.” Basira sat back with a sigh. “It all started with a kidnapping case...”

* * *

Gerry listened, knowing that he was feeding the Eye while the tape dutifully recorded it all. He was impressed, in the end, to learn Basira and her colleagues took on the People’s Church of the Divine Host with barely any knowledge of what they were facing. Jon told them to bring lots of torches, but that was hardly preparation against the full might of the Dark and its avatar as he evidently attempted to transfer his consciousness to a new young body. The police interrupted the process and saved the boy, Callum Brodie, but not without incurring a loss of their own. Basira was on leave in the aftermath of it all.

“You’ll pass all this along to Jon, then?”

Gerry snapped out of the mild trance the narrative of statement put him in—he could see it all, the dingy basement the confrontation happened in, the cultists and their dark robes, Maxwell Rayner and his dead, milky eyes. 

“Yes,” he said. “Of course.”

“Good.” Basira rose. “Tell him I’m done, too. With everything. Section 31. The police force. It’s just not worth it. I was going to tell him he should quit too, but...”

“It’s not exactly that easy,” Gerry said. “Not anymore. But I’ll tell him what you said. I’m glad for you, though.”

Basira glared at him in incredulous silence.

Gerry chuckled ruefully. “I mean it. You should stay away from all of this if you can. That includes this place.”

Basira nodded slowly. “One more thing. Tell him he’s out of luck with the rest of those tapes.”

Gertrude’s tapes. The ones found next to her body that were admitted into evidence. The image of her bullet-riddled corpse flashed in Gerry’s mind’s eye along with the information. He could have done without that.

“Somehow I think he’ll manage without them now,” Gerry said.

Basira scowled, not appreciating his cryptic remark. “I can’t wait to be rid of this place.”

She turned and left, leaving the office door open in her wake. Everyone in the bullpen watched her storm out before looking to Gerry. He gladly vacated Jon’s office to rejoin them.

“Was that about Rayner and the kidnapping?” Elias asked.

Gerry did a double take. “How did you know about that?”

“Magnus tipped the cops off,” Elias said. “He was interested in Hussain and her hunter partner, but he had a lot of irons in the fire.”

“Wait.” Gerry held a hand up. “Back up. Hunter?”

“Her partner, Alice ‘Daisy’ Tonner,” Elias said. “She’s of the Hunt, but neither realizes it. She kills people. Magnus was going to use that, I’m sure.”

“Oh that’s just great,” Martin said. For a moment Gerry had forgotten anyone else was in the room. “Murder cops. Just what we need on top of everything.”

“But Basira just said she was quitting the force,” Gerry muttered, looking to the lift Basira had left via. It was far too late to try and catch her. “She didn’t mention what her partner planned to do.”

Elias tried to sit up, winced, and laid back down on the table. “Well, the blackmail plans are definitely off the table. But things could get messy.”

“Why?” Michael asked.

“Tonner hunts monsters, but she has a broad definition of ‘monster’.”

“And Jon’s on her radar,” Gerry spoke the realization aloud. 

“Shit.” Martin’s cursing drew surprised looks from everyone.

“Yeah,” Elias agreed. “Also, ow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I say Gerry is different, I mean recordings of him reading a statement would definitely be thirty minutes of rustling pages and then “...oh, out loud?” 
> 
> But you’ll see why later.


	20. (Alternative) Arrangements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gerry and Michael finally get another moment alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: drug mentions (specifically weed)

Elias was still laid out on the table when Wendy arrived to deliver one of her very own flower arrangements.

“Is this normal around here?” she asked, which was all the warning Gerry got that she was coming.

“No, ma’am.” Martin didn’t look up from whatever he was typing. It wasn’t work related, Gerry knew. There was a cat picture very clearly on screen in the chat window.

“Hi, Wendy,” Elias called, as cheerful as he could manage given his present situation.

Gerry quickly shoved the box he was rifling through back into the shelf and rushed to meet Wendy. Michael straightened it before following him out into the bullpen at a more sedate pace.

“What are you—“ Gerry cut himself off, remembering questions were a bad idea. 

“Doing here with flowers,” Michael finished for him, looking more than a little amused at the golden opportunity.

“Aww!” Wendy clutched the arrangement tightly. “Already finishing each other’s sentences! That’s too cute!”

“Martin.” Elias gestured feebly at the nearby desk. “Kill me. Please.”

“Sorry, boss,” Martin said. “I’ve recently lost the urge.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Gerry grumbled. “Pricks.”

Michael was blushing.

“Speaking of which!” Wendy held the arrangement out. It involved lots of roses. Gerry facepalmed at the horrible pun. “This is for you. All of you. As a general congratulations for everything that’s happened. It was going to be an apology on behalf of Chuck but from what I’ve gathered he did a good thing.”

Elias laughed. “...Ow. You have no fuckin’ idea.”

Wendy sat the flowers down on the table and looked down at Elias. “What’s with you?”

“Hurt my back,” he said. “Feels like there’s a knife wedged in it.”

Martin snorted with barely suppressed laughter.

“Come on,” Michael chided. “That’s not funny. Not for _him_ , anyway.”

“Oh. Right.” Martin shook his head before closing the chat window. “It’s still hard to wrap my head around, honestly. He’s not who I thought. You’re not who I thought. Hell, for a few weeks _Sasha_ wasn’t who we thought! It’s all a bit headache inducing.”

Wendy looked at Gerry. “And you’re telling me _that_ was normal?”

Gerry shrugged helplessly. “There was a reason I tried to avoid this place before, but...”

She folded her arms. “But?”

“Things have gotten exponentially more complicated since Chuck did his thing.” Gerry couldn’t bring himself to look Wendy in the eye as he added, “Which means I won’t be able to work at the shop much, if at all, anymore.”

Michael stepped up next to Gerry, putting an arm around him. Gerry leaned into him, not realizing he was shaking. He wasn’t nervous about breaking the news to Wendy, but the thought of finally abandoning the last vestiges of that nice, normal life made him feel like breaking down right then and there.

“Ah!” Martin picked up his mobile. It wasn’t so much as vibrating, but tea couldn’t always be his excuse to flee the scene. “I should take this in the other room.”

Elias weakly lifted his head off the table as Martin ducked into document storage and shut the door. He let his head fall back down with a soft, defeated thud. He was trapped, unable to flee.

Wendy looked from Elias, to Michael, and finally Gerry. “A lot of things changed yesterday, huh?”

Michael squeezed Gerry reassuringly. He should tell her everything, he knew. He _wanted_ to tell her everything, but he just didn’t know where to begin—like with exactly how fucked up his mother was? That she was way more than just an abusive bitch like Razor and Wendy thought? Thinking back that far was a mistake. Gerry felt light headed.

“It’s okay.” Wendy stepped forward and put a hand on Gerry’s shoulder. “The Magnus Institute actually deals with this world’s fears, doesn’t it?”

“Uh...” Gerry glanced at Michael, who was stunned. Right. He missed that little revelation about Wendy’s past. It was still weird hearing Wendy describe it that way, though it was only natural given her reference point via alien fears. “Yeah.”

“So you’re gonna be working with them?”

“I don’t really have a choice,” Gerry said. “Like I said, it’s complicated.”

“We should discuss it over dinner.” Wendy reached up and smoothed Gerry’s hair. “Razor could re-dye this, too.”

“I’d like to help,” Michael piped up. He blushed when Gerry looked over in surprise. “I mean, it couldn’t hurt to for me to learn a few pointers too, right?”

Wendy clasped her hands together, beaming. “Of course! You’ll be staying for dinner too, naturally!”

Elias cleared his throat. Wendy turned so quickly her skirts swirled around her. “Oh! And Elias! We at least owe you a cake or something, as well!” She clasped her hands together. “In fact, why don’t I help you out of here? I brought the van with me, so it’ll be no problem.”

It figured Wendy and Elias had gotten friendly in the little time they spent together in the hospital. Wendy could make friends with anyone. Granted, real Elias was a lot more tolerable than Jonah Magnus’s version, but even a cactus was more personable than the dearly departed bastard as far as Gerry was concerned.

“I don’t know,” Elias said. “I mean, I wouldn’t want to impose, and I can barely move. Besides, my place is the last place I wanna be right now,”

“That’s okay!” Wendy waved off his excuses. “You can crash with us until you feel better.” She looked around like there were liable to be cops lurking in the stacks, then whispered, “Razor’s got _fantastic_ weed that’s bound to help with your back!”

Elias smiled wanly. “If you insist...”

Michael buried his face in the crook of Gerry’s shoulder to muffle his laughter. Elias shot him a warning look that went completely missed by everyone but Gerry. There was history there that smelled vaguely reminiscent of skunks to anyone who didn’t know better, but Gerry did—and he kept his mouth shut. Strange of Beholding to throw a sensory memory like that at him along with its insight, but he was going to be smelling weed all damn afternoon thanks to that. 

Gerry still couldn’t imagine Michael toking up. He wasn’t sure he wanted to even ask him about it, but once Martin unwittingly stepped outside just in time to be press-ganged into helping Wendy carry Elias out to her van, it was suddenly just Gerry and Michael, alone together in the very quiet Archives.

“So...” Gerry said.

“Elias and I used to smoke weed together,” Michael blurted. 

“I... okay.”

“It was supposed to just be a one time thing but it became habit until... well, until he was possessed. I didn’t realize it at the time, of course!”

“Right.”

They were still standing together, Michael behind Gerry with his arms around him and his head on his shoulder. There were plenty of chairs free, but it was nice staying like that—supporting one another in the middle of the bullpen, surrounded by empty desks.

“He changed so suddenly I thought it was some sort of overnight epiphany.” Michael laughed bitterly. “He was getting his life in order—better clothes, a promotion, all that—so I tried to tell myself it wasn’t my place to judge when he turned cold towards me just as suddenly. I rationalized it, figured hanging around old friends was a temptation to relapse into his old ways. I had no idea.” Gerry felt the hot rush of breath on his neck as Michael sighed heavily. He shivered, then tensed as he felt cold tears splash his skin.

“I had no idea about a lot of things,” Michael muttered.

“Hey.” Gerry twisted around so he could face Michael. He brought his hands up to lightly touch his face. “That’s all in the past.”

Michael sniffled. Tears were flowing freely. “My past is a twisted mess. You saw it. All because of what she—”

Gerry lightly bonked his forehead against Michael’s to stop the talk of what Gertrude did.

“She’s gone,” he said, forehead still pressed to Michael’s. “We’re here. She lost. We won. We carry on and enjoy our winnings now.”

Michael blinked in confusion. His eyes were so very close. 

“But it’s not over yet,” he said. “You heard what the Not-Them said.”

“Fuck ‘em.” Gerry scoffed. “I’ve got you. I can take on the world.” He glanced to the side. “Jon can help too, I guess.”

Michael laughed softly and touched Gerry’s cheek, making him look him in the eye again. “But for now... just me and you? Here and now?”

“Yes.” Gerry smiled and kissed him. “And yes.”

If anyone saw them like that, making out in the middle of the Archives, they wisely ignored it and moved on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You knew mention of weed was coming with OG Elias.


	21. One (Book)Worm Remains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The calm never lasts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go again...
> 
> cw: Leitner (book) related violence, Leitner (man) related violence, depiction of a seizure

It was strange how quickly things changed. One day Gerry was making plans to have Jon over for dinner, the next it was Michael and Elias. He could scarcely believe how recently he spent agonizing over what to do about Michael as the Distortion—all while making up excuses to avoid setting foot near the Magnus Institute.

Now Michael was human again, Gerry was Head Archivist by default, and they were lying together on the cot in Document Storage. There was too much chance of being discovered out in the bullpen. Once Michael shut the door one thing led to another, and there they were—together.

Gerry felt like he was dreaming.

“This doesn’t feel real, does it?” Michael took the words right out of his mouth. There were tears in his eyes as he looked up at Gerry. “It’s not just me, is it?”

“It’s not just you.” Gerry smiled sadly and pulled Michael closer. “Everything is happening so fast.”

“Time,” Michael spat—like it was their enemy.

“Yeah,” Gerry agreed. “I hate it, too.”

“Can we just stay like this for a while?” Michael shifted so he could rest his head against Gerry’s chest. The cot wouldn’t make for a very comfortable rest at the best of times, and they were really pushing it as they clung together, but Gerry was willing to make it work if it meant avoiding everything else for a little while longer.

“Sure.” He stroked Michael’s hair, feeling a strange, second-hand feeling of calm as Michael listened to his heartbeat. The things the Eye chose to share with him and when were strange as hell. He could only imagine what sort of next level powers of perception Jon was struggling to adapt to elsewhere, but at least neither of them were alone. Martin would join Jon soon, having chosen to hop in Wendy’s van once they managed to get Elias laid out in the back like a piece of cargo.

“Ugh,” Gerry muttered. “And again.”

“Hmm?”

“Beholding bullshit.”

Michael laughed softly. “Tell it we’re busy.”

Gerry smiled. “Right. Fuck off, Beholding.”

Gerry closed his eyes, ignoring his mobile as it vibrated with the message from Martin informing Gerry he wouldn’t be returning to work that day. Fuck, he really was the boss now, too. Horrors truly never ceased.

Gerry’s eyes flew open at a sound in the next room. Michael tensed in his arms. He heard it, too.

“Can’t catch a damn break,” Gerry whispered.

“Could it be someone looking to give a statement?” Michael’s tone was hopeful, as if speaking it could make it so, though he didn’t really believe it. The naive person he used to be couldn’t survive becoming and then unbecoming the Distortion.

“I wish,” Gerry said. “They would’ve called out if that were so.”

Whoever it was, they were trying to be sneaky—and not terribly hard, because they thought the Archives were empty.

Gerry and Michael got off the cot slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible, though its creaking under them sounded thunderous in the silence. Michael hovered nervously behind Gerry as he cracked the door open, trying to get a look at the intruder.

The intruder had their back to the Document Storage door. All Gerry could make out was a shock of scraggly gray hair and a ragged long coat. A vagrant, maybe?

Gerry opened the door and stepped out. The old man spun around, the initial image of a lost vagrant reinforced by the full beard and the wild look in his eyes. There was something familiar about him...

The old man fumbled for something—Gerry expected a knife, not a book.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Gerry groaned. Michael stepped closer, daring to peek around his shoulder at what was going on.

“Oh no,” Michael gasped. 

The old man was too far away for either of them to stop him from reading.

The contents of the shelves collapsed out into the bullpen as the floors and ceiling folded in like wet paper, scattering files and broken glass everywhere as the light fixtures ruptured along with the metal shelving. Gerry grabbed Michael, pulling him close to shield him against the explosion of flying debris. Nothing but paper made it as far as their heads. The glass fell just short, scattering across the desks and mostly ruining personal decorations.

The old man cursed. That wasn’t exactly what he meant to do, but he wasn’t used to dealing with anything other than very old, very hard masonry that yielded with great reluctance. 

Jurgen Leitner had hidden in the tunnels below the Institute for years, using that fucking book to hide him from more than just the Eye. Now that he was above ground, formerly hidden puzzle pieces were rapidly slotting into place.

“ _You!_ ” Gerry yelled. “It _was_ you before! I should’ve fucking killed you!”

Michael grabbed him and pulled him back, sparing Gerry from getting caught directly in the next wave as Leitner’s frantic reading caused the floor between them to rise into a pillar dividing floor and ceiling. The structure around them groaned ominously. He was going to take the Archives down around them all if he didn’t stop.

A door opened from what was formerly the floor, hitting Leitner in the face and knocking the book out of his hand.

“Oh,” Helen said while Leitner howled in pain and clutched his broken nose. “Dreadfully sorry, I only meant to clip your feet. Your own fault for shifting the building about like that, really.”

Gerry ducked around the massive pillar Leitner had made in the center of the room and snatched up the book.

“This never would have happened if you just took the door like I told you,” Helen added, leaning in the doorframe with her arms crossed. “But you just had to be difficult, Librarian.”

“What are you raving about?!” Leitner took his blood covered hand away from his nose, his eyes watering from the pain. “I’ve never seen you before in my life, woman!”

“Um, hi.” Michael peeked around the floor/wall. “That was me.”

Leitner uttered a shrill shriek and jumped back. He remembered Michael—or rather, he remembered Michael as the Distortion—taunting him in the tunnels, telling him all his problems would be solved if he just stepped inside the offered door. Gerry reeled at the flood of images.

Helen hadn’t had the chance to pick up the hobby of harassing Leitner back up. She looked affronted. 

“Oh, he’s terrifying and I’m not?” Helen laughed. “Well, I can change that easily.”

“Don’t!” Michael snapped. “We need him alive and coherent for now.”

Helen tilted her head, looking impressed. “My, you’ve changed.” She stepped fully into the Archives, letting the door slide shut and vanish in her wake. “And all this time I thought _you_ were the the bad influence on _me_. Funny, that.”

As incredibly ill advised as the escape route into the halls was, Leitner groaned at its sudden disappearance. He was trapped with them all now.

Gerry grabbed Leitner by the collar and dragged him to his feet. He shoved him at Helen, who caught Leitner with open arms and a wide grin.

“Keep him still while I fix this mess,” Gerry said, cracking open the book. The title was The Seven Lamps of Architecture, and there on the inside cover was one of those damn bookplates. Much as Gerry wanted to burn the thing on the spot, the structural damage wasn’t something that could easily be fixed by normal means. 

Gerry found the passage he needed without thinking, his eyes going straight to it. The floor receded back to where it should be as he read it aloud, though the carpet remained a shredded ruin in the former pillar’s place. He could put the floor and ceiling around the shelves Leitner crushed back, but the shelves themselves remained a wreck of twisted metal around crushed boxes of files. Broken glass and loose paper was everywhere, and the restored section of the Archives remained shrouded in darkness. There was no longer any danger of collapse, but repairs were going to be a bitch.

“Naughty boy,” Helen gleefully chided Leitner. “Look what a mess you made.”

Leitner whimpered as Helen squeezed him a little too tightly.

“I said _look_ ,” she hissed, her true nature leaking through along with the static in the words.

“Monsters,” he groaned feebly. “You’re monsters, all three of you.”

He yelped as Helen squeezed him a little to tightly again. Michael didn’t protest that time.

Gerry slapped the book closed. “And you’re nothing but a old man whose chickens have come home to roost.”

“Oh, I’d say he’s plenty chicken himself,” Helen cackled.

“What do we do now?” Michael asked, his voice very quiet. He dreaded the answer, Gerry realized.

Helen twisted her arm around so she could have a hand free to trail a finger down Leitner’s bearded jawline. “It’s only fair we call in the Watcher’s Pet.”

Michael looked confused. “Who?”

“She means Jon,” Gerry sighed.

Helen nodded. “We were having a _lovely_ little chat on the amazingly mutable nature of humanity when he suddenly got this faraway look in his eye and told me I should go see to you here at the Archives straight away.” Leitner gasped as she squeezed him again, but only slightly. “Wouldn’t you know it, because of that I finally caught the ever-elusive Librarian.”

“And probably saved us from getting crushed,” Michael added.

Helen rolled her swirling eyes. “Eh.”

“Well...” Michael grimaced, looking to Gerry instead of Helen, as if he needed him for the extra strength to say anything more. “Thanks anyway.”

“It _would_ be a shame to spare you only to have you die a day later, I suppose.”

Leitner started to struggle against Helen’s impossibly vice-like grip. “Just kill me and get it over with, please!”

Helen’s echoing laughter filled the air. “No such luck, Librarian.” She glanced to Gerry. “Make your call while we tie him up.”

“We?” Michael protested, but Helen didn’t so much as look at him. He sighed and gave in, wandering off to find something suitable to bind Leitner.

Those two were going to have a hopelessly complicated relationship.

* * *

Within the hour the entire Archives team—sans Elias, who was essentially on sick leave—was assembled to interrogate the infamous Jurgen Leitner. Helen remained for the sake of her own amusement.

Leitner stared at the floor. Standard zip ties kept his hands bound together behind his chair. His time spent hiding in the tunnels, dodging the predations of the Distortion and worse had taken quite a toll on him. Leitner already struck Gerry as a pathetic old man when he kicked his ass two years ago, so much so he couldn’t believe that could possibly be the Jurgen Leitner he was looking for, and the bastard looked even more pathetic now with his unkempt hair and beard.

“Sorry,” Sasha said. “Maybe it’s that my head’s still a bit fuzzy from the pain killers, but you really want us to believe this is _the_ Jurgen Leitner? With the supernatural, life destroying library? _That_ Jurgen Leitner?”

Leitner’s head snapped up, his eyes flashing with a fire Gerry hadn’t seen before. “It wasn’t meant to destroy lives!” And as quickly as the spark was kindled, it died away as Leitner sagged back in his chair. “If it had only stayed contained, not scattered to the winds...”

Tim was staring at him in disgust. “Yes, well, they all got out there. You’re like a bloody arms manufacturer acting surprised a bomb he made fell on a civilian hospital. Do you know how many statements involving your bullshit we’ve had to research?”

Jon was staring not at Leitner, but at the worst of the damage done to the Archives. He didn’t look away from the twisted husks of the shelves in the darkness as he added, “Or how many more books are still out there, like unexploded ordinance waiting to be picked up by the wrong person...”

“I’m sorry.” Martin held his hands up like a referee at a football match. “Can we dr—I mean stop with the bombs and mines imagery, please? It’s freaking me out.” He glanced to Helen. “And so is she.”

“Oh, just ignore me,” Helen replied breezily. She was standing well apart from the rest of the group, leaning on one of the most damaged desks and twirling a piece of broken glass between her fingers. “I’m merely an impartial observer.”

Michael narrowed his eyes at Helen, knowing better than anyone that was bullshit. Helen grinned back, daring him to contradict. Gerry gently put a hand on Michael’s shoulder to draw his attention away. Michael sat down in Gerry’s lap and curled up against him to avoid looking at anyone else at all in response. The gesture came as a shock to a few present. It wasn’t as if Gerry kept up any social media presence to announce his new relationship status.

“Um, anyway.” Sasha cleared her throat. “I hope someone prepared some proper questions.”

“I’ve got one,” Gerry said as he slipped an arm around Michael. He fixed a baleful glare on Leitner, who predictably cringed away from so much as a nasty look. “What the fuck were you thinking with those fucked-up books, you stupid, idiot mother-fucking...” Gerry took a breath. If he didn’t stop it was going to turn into a rant without end. “Just... _why?”_

No one ever said compelling questions had to be eloquent. Leitner’s trembling stopped once the ‘why’ escaped Gerry’s lips. His eyes grew distant, and for a moment Gerry worried he was too vague.

“Control,” Leitner said, a faint smile touching his lips as he stared off into the middle distance. “I could tell you it was about understanding the Fears, but it was always more about control than anything—to bind them, chain them to my will. To _stop_ being afraid.”

“Oh, yes,” Helen chimed in with a laugh. Everyone but Michael, Gerry, and Jon cringed at its distorted echoing. “And look how well that worked!”

“It could have,” Leitner whined. “If only my library wasn’t destroyed and the books scattered. If they were properly contained...”

“Then what?” Gerry snapped, too angry to sit back and let Leitner unspool his fool’s tale. “You read them all at once as a nice sleepy time story for the fears? Get them to go beddy bye so they stop tormenting humanity? I _refuse_ to believe your goals were ever that altruistic, old man.”

“Gerry,” Jon said in warning. “Let him speak, please.”

“You know what?” Gerry said. “No. I don’t care what his reasons are. I don’t care what his story is—it’s over. The damage is done, the books are out there. Whatever can be learned from you or done to you helps nothing as far as I’m concerned.”

Leitner was trembling again. He made a choked sound, like too many words were trying to come out at once. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. His eyes rolled frantically in their sockets, unable to settle on anything safe to look at in a room full of hostile faces. When Leitner finally managed to speak again, he stumbled over the words. “But I, you said—”

“ _I said shut up!_ ” Gerry yelled.

Leitner’s trembling grew worse, turning into outright convulsions as he was forced back into silence. The zip ties held, leaving him twisting uselessly against them as his eyes rolled back and he made a strange, repetitive noise low in his throat. That was normal for a seizure, the blood that started pouring from his eyes, ears, and nose was not.

A chorus of different startled curses erupted from the group while Helen laughed.

“Someone do something!” Sasha cried.

Tim stepped forward, remembered the zip ties, and looked around frantically. “Does anyone have a knife? Something sharp?”

Helen was behind Leitner in the next instant. She snipped the ties with a flick of her fingers, and Leitner immediately fell twitching on to the newly uncarpeted patch of floor. After a few seconds, he went still. Too still. His eyes stared at nothing, but it wasn’t the distant, thoughtful look of when he started his tale—there was nothing behind them anymore.

Helen nudged Leitner with her shoe.

“Congratulations, Seer-Slash-Archivist,” she said. “You killed him with the easiest of questions.”

“I don’t understand,” Gerry said. He clung to Michael. He should really disentangle himself and stand up, properly inspect the body, but he couldn’t bring himself to move. “How could I... I mean... I never... it was just _words_.”

Leitner wasn’t like the Not-Them, able to be undone by being thoroughly defined, he was only human—and a sorry excuse for one, if that.

“It’s the compulsion to answer questions,” Jon said quietly. “Trying too hard to resist can do it, but forcibly keeping someone from answering when the compulsion to speak has seized them is just as likely to kill.” 

Jon blinked several times, looking stunned by his newfound knowledge on the subject, and sighed in resignation.

“In other words,” Helen chimed in—there was even a literal chime to her voice. “It’s like pulling apart a wishbone.”

“It’s nothing like that,” Tim snapped. He was clinging to Sasha. It was hard to tell who was comforting whom. “Insufferable arse or not, he was still a human being.”

“Yes,” Helen agreed. She glanced to Michael. “So very delicate. Easily broken.”

Gerry was too stunned for words. All he could was hold Michael closer, glad he missed the look Helen directed his way.

“I know,” Jon whispered, so softly Gerry thought perhaps only he heard it.

“Hey!” Martin yelled. “What the hell are you doing?”

Gerry’s attention snapped back to Helen, who had picked Leitner’s body up like it was a sack of moldy potatoes.

“Oh, did you want this?” She smirked. “I didn’t think you’d be that eager to explain another body to the police.”

“Martin,” Jon said, sounding immensely tired. He held a hand out. “It’s... it’s fine. Just let her go.”

Martin reluctantly backed off and went to stand at Jon’s side. Gerry had to give him props for being ready to throw down with the Distortion, as inadvisable as that was—Jon was in good hands. Strong, gentle, but firm hands. They were a good couple even if they didn’t realize it yet.

Gerry blinked. He could really fucking do without Beholding choosing _now_ to drop that on him, though it was obvious when he thought about it.

Sasha eyed Helen warily. “But where will you take... um, the body?”

“Don’t worry your pretty little head.” Helen winked. “I have ways of making people disappear without a trace. But you lot already knew that quite well, didn’t you?”

She laughed to herself and exited via a door conjured by the ruined section of the Archives, leaving Gerry and the rest to deal with the latest turn of events as they may.

When Gerry found his voice again, reminded unpleasantly of how Leitner struggled to speak in the end, all he could think to say was, “Everything is fucked.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it’s better than getting piped to death, right?


	22. (Stuck) Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Options are discussed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of yelling, in other words.

But while everyone else quietly nodded along in agreement with Gerry, Tim snapped.

“You’re damn right everything is fucked!”

Tim jumped to his feet, focusing all his ire not on Gerry, but on Jon.

“This is where all your paranoia sneaking around got us,” he snapped. “I hope you’re bloody happy, Jon.”

“Wait, hold on,” Gerry said. He gently nudged Michael so they could both stand. “You saw what happened, that was most definitely my fault. Hell, the last 48 hours are pretty much all on me.”

“But who dragged you into this in the first place?” Tim retorted. “Jon! Taking time out from stalking the rest of us so he can rush straight off to that flower shop the moment Sasha says she thinks she saw Gerard mother-skinning Keay working the counter.”

“Tim!” Sasha protested.

“He didn’t skin her,” Jon said quietly, not offering anything in his own defense—even though he hadn’t yet begun to suspect his assistants of anything when he first came to the shop. Gerry smacked his temple, trying ineffectually to get Beholding to just fucking lay off, while Jon stared morosely at the floor.

No one noticed, the were too focused on Tim as he started angrily pacing.

“Now things have gotten a thousand times weirder and... and they were pretty fucking weird after the worms, and what?” Tim turned to Sasha and Martin, who wouldn’t meet his eyes. “We’re just supposed to go with it? Suck it up? Is that it?”

Jon looked up. “Tim...”

“Fuck that!” Tim snapped, not giving Jon a chance to speak. He stopped pacing so he could stare Jon down directly. “I didn’t trust you before, I don’t trust you now, and I sure as hell don’t trust _those_ two since they clearly come as matched set.” He pointed at Gerry and Michael. “So _that’s it!_ I... I...”

Jon covered his face with his palm while Tim tried to say he quit a dozen different ways, and every time the words died in his throat. 

“What the fuck?!”

“The old contracts are grandfathered in,” Jon said gravely. “Even now that I’m in charge, I can’t just... let you go. Believe me, I would if I could, but it’s impossible. I can only keep new people from being roped in.”

Martin and Sasha stared at him in horror.

“Jon?” Martin said, his voice quavering. “What does that mean?”

Jon couldn’t bear to say it out loud, not with Martin looking at him like a puppy, so Gerry stepped in and gave the bad news instead.

“It means you can’t quit,” Gerry said. “Not easily. Not... pleasantly. If any of us avoids the work the Institute does for too long, it’ll take a toll on our health. That includes me now, too.”

“And me,” Michael added softly. “Since my employment was technically never terminated.”

Jon uttered a terse, miserable laugh. “So we’re all stuck together, I’m afraid.”

Tim screamed and kicked over the nearest bin. He stormed out of the Archives.

“Tim, wait!” Sasha yelled. She started to lever herself up with her crutches, but gave up and sat back down halfway through. “Damn it! I can’t exactly chase after him like this.”

“I’ve got him.” Martin rose grimly to the challenge.

“I’ll go too,” Jon quickly added, but the look Martin gave him stopped him in his tracks. It was more sad than anything.

“Better you wait here for now,” Martin said. “Things were difficult before, what with you... well, you know. And now it’s only gotten more complicated.”

Jon frowned. The dim light of the remaining fixtures glinted off his glasses as he looked down. He didn’t really need them anymore—in fact, wearing them was hurting his eyes as they overcorrected his vision—but he was trying to pretend nothing had changed. 

“Normal humans only, in other words.”

Martin grimaced. He didn’t want to say as much aloud, but he also couldn’t bring himself to lie and say Jon was totally still normal and/or human. 

“I’ll be back as soon as I can, alright?” He glanced to Sasha, who gave him a pained but encouraging smile. “Hopefully with Tim.”

“Hopefully,” she sighed.

“And if not,” Martin said with forced levity. “Well, he has to come back sooner or later, right?”

“Right,” Jon muttered, head bowed.

Then it was just Michael and Gerry with Jon and Sasha. Jon was staring very intently at his feet. Sasha leaned back in her chair and folded her arms.

“So...”

“Maybe it _is_ all my fault,” Jon muttered.

“Oh, come off it,” Sasha said. “I’d come over there and smack you myself if it wasn’t so much effort.” She glanced between Michael and Gerry, considering her other options. “And I don’t know either of you well enough to ask you to do it for me.”

Michael blanched at the very idea. 

Gerry held his hands up. “Yeah, sorry, no can do.”

“My point is you do not get to shoulder all the blame for the bad things that happen around here,” Sasha said. “I still don’t even fully understand what happened to me, but it wasn’t your fault. Honestly, it was nobody’s fault. It was just... bad luck. And probably sheer coincidence Gerry found the missing piece of the table. The thing is Tim blames himself for everything as much as you blame yourself, Jon, so you two should really stop with the lone wolf ‘this is my burden’ routine and recognize you’re a lot alike. For better or worse.”

Jon looked up, his expression stunned. “I... I never considered...”

“Of course not,” Sasha scoffed. “Because you both go tearing off on your own, convinced you can fix everything yourselves, and then you get stuck. Except Tim can at least admit he needs help now and again.” She sighed and ran a hand through her hair. “Though I think that’s less and less likely with all this... what was it called?”

“The Stranger,” Gerry said. “I Do Not Know You.”

“Right.” Sasha scowled. “Don’t tell him I said anything—but, well, between you and Jon I don’t suppose secrets matter much anymore.”

Jon bristled. “And just what is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you can’t help but Know things with a capital K,” Michael said, his matter-of-fact tone throwing Jon off.

Jon had avoided looking at him all night, but once he finally looked at Michael and saw he was just a man with a wry sense of humor. Michael smiled and waved at him languidly before leaning against Gerry.

“Tim has a Thing with the Stranger,” Sasha continued. “I used to catch him doing his own research on the side here and there. It took his brother, it almost took me, and he’s... not in a good place right now. I thought about begging off coming tonight, but Jurgen Leitner live and in person was too much to pass up.”

Gerry cleared his throat and looked away. “Sorry. Kind of ruined the ‘live’ part there, didn’t I?”

He tried to laugh, but it was flat and humorless.

“You couldn’t have known,” Jon said. “It’s my fault for not—”

“Oh my god, just _stop_ ,” Sasha cut in. “Stop trying to carve out a piece of the blame, Jon! The man was awful and his books brought a lot of suffering into the world, can we all just agree that it’s good that he’s gone now?”

Awkward glances were exchanged before everyone nodded.

Sasha rubbed her temples. “Sorry. Pain meds are wearing off and my ankle’s throbbing like a bastard.” She held a finger up to Gerry. “And don’t you get started, either.”

“I was just going to brood on it in silence, thanks,” Gerry retorted.

Sasha smiled through the pain. “You do look like the type.”

“That’s a vicious goth stereotype.”

“So you’re telling me you _don’t_ fill whole notebooks with sappy poetry?”

Gerry grinned. “That’s Martin’s thing.”

“Hey!” Martin exclaimed, walking back in at the worst possible moment. He glared at Gerry. “It’s not sappy...”

Gerry pressed his hands together in a silent plea for mercy, glad to see that Martin hadn’t returned alone. Tim was scowling, his posture hunched and defensive as he followed behind Martin with his hands in his pockets. He looked ready to tear back off or fight at a moment’s notice.

Sasha craned her neck up at him and smiled.

“I couldn’t just leave you alone with these arseholes,” Tim muttered.

Sasha laughed and grabbed him by the arm, pulling him back down into the chair next to hers. “My hero.”

Martin sat by Jon’s side, nudging him hard when he started to protest at at Tim’s summation of the rest of the group. 

Gerry glanced around at the mess Leitner made of the room. It was going to take a while to get all the files back in order—hell, they might even end up in better order than Gertrude left them by the end—but first thing’s first. Gerry nudged Jon.

“Can I borrow your lighter for a second?”

The question earned him a momentary look of confusion as Jon wondered how Gerry knew he had one before recognition dawned. Jon dug a gold lighter with a web motif out of his pocket and handed it over. Gerry nodded his thanks and stood, grabbing the dented metal bin Tim had kicked. The paper left in it would make decent kindling.

“What’re you doing?” Tim asked as Gerry started towards the side exit. 

“Book burning,” Gerry said, holding up the Seven Lanterns of Architecture. “Wanna come?”

Michael hung back with Sasha as Tim followed Gerry outside. The two had their own things to talk about.

* * *

Tim waited until the heavy metal door of the side exit closed before speaking up.

“So you’re the boss now, is that it?”

“Head Archivist,” Gerry agreed, sitting the bin down. “And Jon’s taken Elias’s old position, though I think we’ll still need Elias as sort of a shadow Head of the Institute, given everything is still in his name.”

“Fuck.”

Gerry tipped the book into the bin. “Yeah.”

Tim stared at him. “And you’re okay with all this?”

“Nope.” Gerry dug in his pockets for a piece of paper and turned up the receipt from the corner shop. “I’m really not. In fact, I spent years running from all this shit, but here I am again, burning one of Leitner’s goddamn books.”

“You make it sound like there’s no escape.”

Gerry used Jon’s lighter to ignite the receipt. He looked up at Tim.

“You knew what you were getting into when you came to the Institute,” he said, staring him in the eye. “Didn’t you?”

He watched as Tim tensed, his pupils dilated in the growing firelight.

“I had an idea,” Tim said. “I knew they researched weird shit here, so I hoped it could help me find the truth about what happened to Danny. I never dreamed it was just another part of it—or that I’d be signing away my soul with my employment contract.”

Gerry waited until his fingers were scorched before he dropped the flaming piece of paper into the bin. Gerry thought about asking more questions, but that was enough. Anything more and his prying would become obvious. He watched as the fire consumed the scrap paper cradling the book before moving on to the leather cover, slowly consuming it.

“What’s the ‘unpleasant’ way of quitting you mentioned before?” Tim asked.

Gerry didn’t look away from the fire. “You blind yourself.”

“Oh.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

They stood watching the book burn in the alley, neither saying a word for a while.

“I still need to get revenge for my brother first,” Tim said.

“That’s understandable.”

“And then...” Tim sighed. “Then I don’t know what I’ll do.”

“Also understandable,” Gerry said. The fire was burning brightly and the book was barely recognizable as such now. “Whatever you do, I respect your decision.”

“Really?”

“I’m not a monster, Tim.” Gerry folded his arms and finally looked at him once more. “Contrary to popular belief.”

“Oh.” Tim looked away guiltily. “Right.”

The stood and watched the book burn together, not heading back inside until they were sure nothing remained but ash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost had this end on a sour note with Tim but then I decided nah, everybody needs a break.


	23. (Everybody Needs) A Little Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mostly Fluff. Mostly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My health finally improves and life gets hectic, ain’t that just typical?
> 
> cw: Stranger typical body horror (in dreams)

It was agreed—after staring at the wreckage of shelving, files, and light fixtures—they would deal with the mess Leitner made later, when everyone was rested. In the meantime they all could take the rest of the day off. Everyone filed off in pairs—Tim with Sasha, Jon with Martin, Michael with Gerry—and all Gerry could think on the train was he was glad everyone had someone to lean on through all the upheaval.

He texted Wendy his apologies about dinner, asking if they could push it back a few days due to complications at the Archives.

“That’s certainly one way to put it,” Michael sighed, watching over Gerry’s shoulder as he typed.

“Though I’m sure she’d understand if I said we’re going to be picking broken glass out of everything for a while, I’d rather not make her worry,” Gerry replied.

Wendy texted back almost immediately that Elias was still working things out anyway. Razor was doing what she could to help, but mostly it meant the two of them smoking on the roof. She included a large sticker of a coughing flower. Gerry always forgot his phone could do that until Wendy attached one to a message.

“Aww, that’s cute,” Michael cooed.

“Ah, right,” Gerry said. “You need a mobile too, don’t you?”

Michael rested his hand on Gerry’s shoulder to make it easier to maintain his perch there. He picked at the frayed edge of his jacket. “Among other things.”

So they were going shopping.

* * *

After hooking Michael up with a new phone—Gerry added him to his plan, it was easiest—they stopped by a charity shop just down the street. Gerry thumbed through the used books while Michael looked at clothes, though he felt it was hoping for too much to find another misplaced Leitner so soon after burning another. He tried not to think of what had happened to the man himself as he picked up one book after another, turning to the front page to check for a bookplate, and putting them back when he found nothing but old library cards. Trying not to think of it, of course, meant he couldn’t help but think of how the blood vessels burst in Leitner’s eyes as he died—as if all the words he wanted but couldn’t at Gerry’s command to say backed up like blood clots in his veins. 

“What do you think of this?”

The much abused paperback Gerry was barely holding on to slipped from his hands at Michael’s question. Gerry caught it in midair, adding another crease to the cover. No bookplate, which was a relief, because he didn’t want to know what a Leitner made of a trashy romance novel could do to people when read aloud. Gerry shoved the book back on the shelf and turned to face Michael.

“Wow,” he said. “That is... _wow_.”

Michael’s face fell. “You don’t like it.”

“No, I’m just at a loss for words,” Gerry said with complete honesty. He couldn’t think of how to describe the particular mix of colors and patterns. “Was that always your style?”

Michael looked down at the shirt and frowned. “No. Not really. I tried not to stand out before. But now this feels... comforting.”

“Then you should get it.”

“Really?” Michael perked right back up. “You think so?”

“Nearly everything I own is black.” Gerry laughed. “You really don’t need my permission or advice on fashion.”

Michael’s eyes gleamed. “What do you mean ‘nearly’?”

Oh god. 

“Well, there’s still the shop apron,” Gerry said, tapping his chin. “Should probably return that now that I’m... yeah. And then there’s a few shirts I bought while traveling for a laugh. They’re sort of horrible holiday souvenirs.”

“Now those I have to see!”

“Sure, maybe later.” Gerry looked away, feeling the start of a blush. “But first buy everything you want here.”

Somehow Gerry doubted Michael would find much to his tastes at retail shops, so what the hell.

“ _Everything?_ ”

“You need a whole wardrobe, right?” Gerry turned back to the shelves. “I can afford it, and I’ve got plenty of spare closet space, so go wild.”

Michael rushed forward and caught Gerry in an awkward side hug, throwing his arms and the eye-searing shirt around him. Gerry slid an arm around him in return.

“Thank you,” Michael whispered, sounding overwhelmed with emotion. He never had a boyfriend who doted on him before. He never really had a serious relationship at all before. 

Gerry smiled and lightly kissed Michael on the temple in spite of Beholding once again choosing the worst time to dump too much information on him. “It’s my pleasure.”

He waited until Michael happily returned to the clothing section to sigh. He was just going to have to get used to suddenly knowing things. Gerry slipped out his mobile and thought about texting Jon to ask if he was finding it just as annoying, but hesitated on the screen. How could he phrase the question? ‘How about these Eye powers, huh?’ This was why he rarely made friends easily. Once people stopped seeing him as intimidating they realized what a fucking hopeless git he was and—

A new message from Jon popped up right under his hovering thumb. “I hate it, too.”

Gerry uttered a shaky laugh and texted back, “good to know.”

He sent along Michael’s new number just in case that wasn’t something Jon just happened to Know as well, then told him to focus on his boyfriend.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Jon fired back. “I simply didn’t want to overstay my welcome at Georgie’s.”

“sure jan, I mean jon.”

Gerry slipped his mobile away and, knowing he’d find nothing remotely useful in the book section, went to look through the music section. Beholding didn’t offer any sudden insight into Michael’s music tastes as he looked through the eclectic mix of media on offering, so it looked like he was just going to have to ask Michael himself.

* * *

Gerry forgot about asking until they were halfway up the steps to his building.

“You’ll laugh,” Michael said.

“Oh, come on.”

Michael waited until they were in the hallway to reply. “ABBA’s my favorite. You can probably work backwards from there.”

Gerry turned and walked backwards a few paces, stopping at his door. He looked Michael up and down and smiled. “Yeah, I can see it.”

Michael look stunned. “Yeah?”

“Driving Gertrude absolutely up the wall singing while filing.”

Michael blushed. Gerry couldn’t literally see it like he could with certain other bursts of insight, nor was it even something Beholding had to tell him. It just seemed like a very Michael Shelley thing to do—and the fact Gertrude hated it made it all the more sweet.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” Gerry said, turning to unlock his door. “It’s adorable.”

So was the way Michael blushed. He tentatively followed Gerry into his flat, nervous now that he had things to bring with him.

“I... er, I could still talk to Jon or Elias,” Michael said. “See about getting my own flat now that I’m working again. I mean, I don’t want you to feel obligated just because—”

“All I want is you,” Gerry said, holding a hand up before Michael could fall into a rambling—well, spiral. “The rest is your decision. If you feel more comfortable with your own place and just visit from time to time, that’s—“

“Oh, god no,” Michael gasped, clutching the charity shop bags to his chest as he cut Gerry off in turn. “I can’t! Er, not yet. Not now. I’m still... not very sure of things. Reality, I mean. Not us. I’m _very_ sure of that.”

Gerry tried not to smile too much. “Well, if it turns out we drive each other up the wall and need more space, we can revisit it later. For now, you’re welcome to stay.”  
  
Michael nodded, some of the tension oozing out of him. “So I just... put all this in the closet?”

“Yeah.” Gerry moved on to the kitchen. “Shove my stuff aside to make room. In the meantime I’ll see what sort of takeaway menus I’ve still got lying around. In the mood for anything in particular?”

“I can barely even remember what real food tastes like.”

“So... is that a vote for ‘whatever’?”

“Get what you’d think I’d like.”

Brightly colored clothes and ABBA. All Gerry could think was Michael’s tastes were too eclectic to easily pin down. He ordered Pad Thai with the sudden certainty that Michael wasn’t allergic to peanuts. He was, however, allergic to penicillin. Gerry rubbed his eye, tired of knowing it all.

* * *

Dinner was nice. They ate and talked about nothing of consequence until Gerry almost started to believe they were a normal couple. As if Michael wasn’t a recovering avatar of the Spiral. As if Gerry wasn’t the newly minted Archivist.

But Gerry was more than that.

How foolish of him to forget as they fell asleep together

* * *

Gerry sat in the middle of a dark theatre. He didn’t remember how he got there, let alone what show he was attending. He was never much for stage performances, with the notable exception of that time he dated a guy who was a musical theatre performer and he tried to be supportive. God, how he he tried—and failed.

A spotlight went up in the middle of the stage, where a single figure stood contorted in a pose that made Gerry grimace just looking at it. Strange music began to play as the figures limbs moved with too much fluidity, its head twisting too far as the curtain pulled back to reveal a troupe of dancers awaiting their cues. The music was familiar. Gerry had heard some variation of at a dozen different fairgrounds and carnivals throughout his travels—the airy, jovial music of a circus. 

But it was wrong. It was all wrong. The music was wrong. The dance was wrong. Gerry looked away from the stage to find he was no longer alone in the audience. Every seat was full. The person next to him stared at the stage in rapt fascination. They had no choice, their hands were nailed to the armrests, and the flesh of their flayed open necks was pinned to to the velvet of the chair backs, keeping their heads focused intently on the show. 

The leader of the dance threw their arm out, calling for the audience to join in and sing. Gerry heard the sound that rose amongst the audience in his bones. The singers wept. Gerry looked to the stage, where the dance was reaching a terrible crescendo with the music. The faces of the dancers blurred. Instead of switching partners, their hands melded together. One dancer faltered and collided with another, their bodies mashing into each other like wet clay. The music became discordant, but the dance could not stop. The singing turned to noise. Hadn’t it always been noise? Hadn’t this always been doomed from the start? 

Still Gerry couldn’t look away. On stage was a writhing mass of limbs and flesh, still twisting and pulling in a paroxysm of dance. It wouldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.

And Gerry was in the middle of it all—helplessly, endlessly watching.

* * *

Gerry woke with a gasp.

It was a dream—no, worse, another vision.

Michael was still asleep and facing Gerry. Though he was deep asleep, his arm was draped across Gerry’s midsection. His fingers digging into Gerry’s side woke him up. Gerry stared at him, wondering if Michael knew he was having a bad dream again, but Michael was deep asleep. He remembered their discussion before, when Michael as the Distortion said it never slept. There was something darkly funny about the way his fingers only hurt a little as he wrapped his arm possessively around Gerry as he slept.

Michael slept so soundly he barely stirred even as Gerry kissed him on the forehead, and Gerry almost envied him that.

Just when he was sure he was going to spend the rest of the night watching the steady rise and fall of Michael’s chest, Gerry fell asleep once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gotta throw in a nightmare lest Gerry get too comfortable, y’know.


	24. Breakfast (of Champions)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gerry finally makes good on his promise to teach Michael how to make a bouquet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy March 369th time has lost all meaning so here’s an update.
> 
> CW: brief episode of unreality and paranoia at beginning, flashback of graphic injury and death (mention of blood, gore)

Gerry woke to Michael staring at him, which seemed only fair, but there were tears in his ears, which immediately soured the bleary feeling of happiness Gerry initially felt at the sight.

“Whoa, hey,” Gerry murmured as he reached out to him. “What’s wrong?”

“I know this is going to sound mental,” Michael said, his attempt at a smile wavering. “And I know I asked this before, but... is this any of this real?” Michael laughed nervously. “I mean, really.”

Gerry wasn’t sure how to answer that. He wasn’t even fully awake. His eyes were half crusted over and his mouth tasted like a sewer. “Do you mean our relationship, or...?”

“I mean _everything!”_ Micheal grabbed his hand, intertwining their fingers and squeezing Gerry’s tight. “All of this! The way you make me feel, cuddling in the Archives, shopping yesterday, closet space, sharing a bed and holding hands right now!” He put his other hand around Gerry’s, clinging to it—clinging to him. “It’s... it’s t-too good to be t-true.”

“What do you mean?”

Michael’s eyes stopped darting about anxiously and fixed on Gerry. “This is the one of the games I would play before. A longer one. Build someone up, then knock them down. Make them think they had everything, then take it all away. Shatter them completely. What if I—no, _she_... how do you know that’s not her ploy? How do _I_ know?”

“I...” Gerry stopped. He hadn’t thought of that, didn’t really want to think of what games Helen might already be playing as the newly minted Distortion. For the moment he could only focus on what was right in front of him—Michael. “Well, what are you aware of right now? Besides the fear of... all that.”

Michael blinked, looking confused for a moment. “The ringing in my ears. My pulse.” He looked down at his hands, still clasped around Gerry’s. “I can feel it in my fingers. My breath. Your breath.” He wrinkled his nose and looked up at Gerry. “It stinks.”

Gerry laughed. He couldn’t help it.

“I didn’t mean it!” Michael squeaked.

“No, you’re right,” Gerry said. “I should brush my teeth.”

“Having a body sucks,” Michael groaned.

“All that troublesome care and maintenance,” Gerry agreed. He placed his free hand atop Michael’s. “I’m not sure I’m the most adept at deep metaphysical questions, and I don’t think it’s possible for me to glean anything about the Spiral’s intentions without getting a major nosebleed, but I at least know what feels real, and it’s this.”

He kissed Michael on the forehead. “To spare you the morning breath.”

Michael planted a kiss on Gerry’s knuckles in return, his lips brushing the eye tattoos. “How thoughtful.”

Gerry grinned. There was no feeling of deja vu accompanying the words that time. It was just Michael being blissfully, easily earnest.

“I really love that about you,” Michael added, blushing as he realized how often he said them before as the Distortion. “I mean it. I love _you_ , Gerry.”

He looked vaguely stunned he could say it so easily after all his past struggling with the truth and any sort of emotion.

Gerry beamed. “I love you too, Michael.”

Nothing felt more real than that.

They climbed out of bed together, Michael sticking close to Gerry. The episode had passed, but Gerry knew Michael still wasn’t quite sure of himself—or anything else, for that matter. 

Gerry wondered about Helen’s motivations the entire time he brushed his teeth, but it wasn’t as though he could hope to get the whole truth out of her if he asked.

* * *

It occurred to Gerry later, while he was in the middle of fixing breakfast, that Helen mentioned hanging around Jon before. He told her to help them deal with Leitner, after all. Considering all that happened after her timely intervention, it figured that little bit of information would slip Gerry’s mind. He just wished he could forget the rest as easily.

It was a damn good thing Gerry only had toasting waffles on hand, and not actual pancake mix, or they definitely would have burned as he zoned out. Instead, he was just standing at the counter staring at nothing long after the waffles popped up with a ding from the toaster.

Michael stood up from the kitchen table and padded over, still barefoot.

“Eye stuff again?”

“No,” Gerry sighed. “Just my own shitty brain chemistry. I could take pills for it, but it’s probably a bad idea to mix Beholding and Adderall.”

“Probably.” Michael reached past him and plated the waffles. “Come on, let’s eat.”

Guilt set in as Gerry followed Michael back to the table. He owed him more than this after all the chaos and bloodshed, something better and more thoughtful than a second-hand clothes shopping spree, but all Gerry had to offer were dry waffles from a sealed bag.

“Sorry I couldn’t make this more special,” Gerry said. “I tend to forget about perishables, so it’s all crap like this or maybe leftovers courtesy Wendy and Razor.”

“I can set you straight.” Michael smirked as they sat down across from one another. “Figuratively speaking.”

Gerry groaned. “It’s too early in the morning for puns.”

“Anyway,” Michael said around a mouthful of waffle. “This is fine. It’s really very sweet.”

“Thanks.”

“No, I mean this tastes very sweet. I like it.” Michael chuckled as he picked the waffle apart with his fingers. “But the gesture is sweet, too.”

“Ah, yeah, these are usually the ‘fuck it’ breakfast option.” Gerry stared at his plate, not feeling particularly hungry. “Which is why I wanted this to be more special.”

“Well...”

“Hmm?”

Michael blushed. “Remember before? When you told Wendy you were teaching me how to make flower arrangements? And I-I... uh, held you to that?”

Gerry remembered. He shuddered at the memory of the Distortion’s long, knife-sharp fingers at his throat. It felt like years ago. At the time there seemed no hope for Sasha James—or Michael. Now they were restored with Elias as a bonus, and anything seemed possible. Gerry flashed back on his vision of the nightmare stage show collapsing at its crescendo. 

“I remember,” Gerry blurted. If he didn’t say something he was going to get lost wondering what other impossible things might be possible—like stopping every ritual before they could start.

Michael smiled and nodded. “I think I’d still like to learn...”

* * *

Wendy all but tackle hugged them when they entered the shop.

“Ugh, Michael, you’re so tall,” she said, stepping back to get a better look at him. “It’s just not fair.”

“Sorry,” Michael said automatically.

“No, no, it’s fine!” Wendy laughed and waved her hands frantically—as if she could literally smooth things over that way. “Hell, you make Gerry look short by comparison.”

“Okay, just for that I’m keeping this.” Gerry held up his folded shop apron. “And burning it.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t already,” Wendy retorted. “You never exactly made it a secret you hated it.”

“I thought he looked cute in it,” Michael said sheepishly.

That caught Gerry so off guard he nearly dropped the bundle of pink cloth. “Really?”

Wendy laughed so loudly she drew Razor out from the back. “Oh, hey you two. Wanna see the new shop cat?”

Gerry gave Wendy a quizzical look. She just smiled back at him innocently. He looked to Michael, who shrugged, and followed Wendy into the back to see what the hell was going on.

Elias was sitting in a cheap collapsible saucer chair usually reserved for picnics or parties and reading one of Gerry’s books. He was in a faded old t-shirt and jeans that made him look less like the Elias Gerry knew than ever.

And then there was the cat ear headband, which completely broke Gerry’s brain.

“You were right,” Elias said to Razor. “I guess I owe you a fiver now.”

“I knew I’d get get some use out of that thing after all,” Razor said proudly.

“Why?” Gerry croaked.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Michael said. “I think he looks—“

“ _Don’t_ ,” Gerry cut him off. “I still haven’t quite divorced this Elias from the other one yet. It’s... it’s a lot for me, okay?”

“Fair enough.” Elias took the headband off and tossed it aside. He pointedly stared at his book, turning the page even though he hadn’t been able to focus on the words for some time. “Not like I’m going through shit of my own here.”

Razor sighed. “Look, I just thought it’d be funny, since he’s gonna be lying around the shop to recover for a while. Y’know, like a cat.”

“Yeah, well—“

Michael cleared his throat. “Sorry, but, um...” He gestured desperately at the work table. “The flowers? Remember?”

“Right. Sorry.” Gerry pinched the bridge of his nose. “I guess I’m just on edge.”

“You should _eat_ ,” Elias said, slapping the book shut.

Gerry could feel Razor’s disapproving gaze on him.

“W-we both had breakfast,” Michael protested.

“He knows what I mean.” 

Gerry peered at Elias, who was slumped in the the saucer chair wearing clothes the Jonah Magnus version of Elias would never be caught dead in, but in that moment he sounded unnervingly similar to the old bastard version the Not-Them crushed. Gerry stared at Elias, who stared back with tired, bloodshot eyes that didn’t look quite right after so many years glaring at the pale green ones that were actually Jonah Magnus. All the emotion floating right on the surface—in his eyes, on his face—was too weird.

“Okay!” Razor clapped their hands. “I’m gonna guess making a bagel run isn’t gonna cut it.” They looked to Gerry. “So what exactly do you need?”

Right. No more secrets. Wendy and Razor already knew something of the Fears. Even if he tried to demure, Razor would persist—or worse, call Wendy in to tag team him—so Gerry told the truth.

“A statement,” he said.

Razor arched an eyebrow. “Of what?”

“I don’t know, how did you get Chuck?”

Razor tensed. Gerry already regretted asking the moment they started speaking, but something strange happened as they did. 

They said it started when they heard a crash, and Gerry very plainly heard the noise they spoke of—a cloud of dust obscured his vision, blocking out the back room. When it cleared, he was standing in a library crammed floor to ceiling with books. The dark wood panel and ugly carpeting screamed 80s, as did Razor’s punk hair and makeup. A spiral staircase leading up to another level of the library had collapsed, the sign clearly stating it was out of order ignored by the person now lying in the ruins of the stairs. Gerry couldn’t make out much of his features, there was too much dust and debris.

“Jeff!” Razor yelled. “What the fuck?!”

He was somewhere in the middle of the wreckage. In it. On it. The more Razor tried to focus on helping him, tried to think of what to do, the more apparent it became that he was fucked. They saw bones sticking out and quickly looked away.

“Oops.” Jeff tried to laugh. Coughed up blood instead. “Sorry.”

Who even fucking invited Jeff to sneak into the mansion? He was dead weight. Shit, no, don’t think like that, not now. They were crying. Razor barely knew him, they hated him for being such a fuck up, and they were still crying. 

Razor never saw anyone die before. Shit. What were they supposed to do?

“Hey,” Jeff whispered. He wasn’t quite dead yet. Maybe there was still a chance to save him. 

But no, Razor’s gaze slipped downwards and saw one of the worst wounds again—blood bubbling up with Jeff’s every labored, ragged breath.

Razor sniffled. “What?”  
  
“Found this.” Jeff reached up, took their hand, and put a tiny potted plant in it. How was the little blue ceramic pot not broken? Had he protected it in the fall? Gotten himself hurt even more in the process? Razor choked back more tears, wanting to curse Jeff for being so fucking... _Jeff_. 

His messy blond hair covered his eyes like always. Jeff grinned, showing teeth stained with blood, like he knew exactly what they were thinking. “His name is... Chuck... ‘kay?”

“Sure.” Razor nodded stiffly. “Okay. I’ll take care of him. Don’t worry.”

“Cool.”

And then he died.

Gerry blinked. He was back in the back room of the flower shop. Tears were streaming down Razor’s face. Had they just said the last bit about Jeff dying as the vision ended out loud? He wasn’t certain.

“You were somewhere else,” Elias said.

“I was _there_ ,” Gerry replied. “Watching it happen.”

Michael reached over to take his hand and give it a reassuring squeeze. Gerry smiled at him.

“Right.” Gerry sighed. He felt giddy and lightheaded, like he’d just done a shot of whiskey. “Sorry about that, Razor.”

“It’s cool.” They still sounded shaken. “Fuck. That word sounds dirty now. Cool. Cool, cool, cool. _Ugh_. See, this really isn’t stuff I should bottle up, anyway.”

“Did you have any idea about Chuck back then, though?”

“Not exactly.” Razor dabbed at their eyes. “But we kinda guessed based on other weird shit we found around the mansion.” They grabbed a box of tissues to blow their nose. “What were we even talking about before?”

“Michael said something about flowers,” Elias piped up.

“Right.” Michael squeezed Gerry’s hand again. “I’m still keen to learn how to arrange them, seeing as you owe me.”

Gerry glanced to Elias. “Wanna join us?”

Elias yawned and stretched. “I think I’ll just sit back and watch, thanks.”

“Toldja he’s like a cat,” Razor laughed.

“I was possessed by an unholy workaholic with bad taste in suits and men for decades,” Elias retorted. “I’m entitled to sit around and do nothing for a while.”

Razor put their hand on their hip. “And what was he working so hard towards, again?”

“The apocalypse.”

“Oh. Right.” The awkward silence stretched a little too long before Razor took a step back. “You know what? I’m gonna go see if Wendy needs help out front. You three have fun.”

* * *

Elias might as well have been participating, as much as he kept asking questions and commenting on Gerry’s lesson.

“Do you really need the baby’s breath and stuff in there?” He asked. “Seems like a scam.”

Gerry rolled his eyes. “It’s filler. It helps shape the bouquet. Thus the term filler.”

Elias yawned again. “If it were me I’d just go nuts with the good stuff.” He slumped lower in his chair. “Michael’s looks good though.”

“You think so?” Michael tensed, immediately self-conscious about his bouquet in progress. Gerry moved over and gently pulled his hands apart before he could crush the whole thing.

“It’s nice,” Gerry confirmed. “You’re a natural.”

Michael blushed. “You mean it?”

“I’d totally buy it.” Elias yawned yet again.

Gerry turned to him, annoyed. “Have you slept at all?”

“Not really,” Elias said flatly. “I keep having nightmares about not being in control of my own body. No amount of weed h— _hey!”_

Shit, he did it again. 

“Sorry.”

“Like you really needed Beholding to figure that one out.”

“I’m trying to do better.” Gerry trimmed an overlong stem. “I told Jon to watch it with the questions and here I am, constantly forgetting to do the same.”

“It’s not as though most people would notice,” Michael said. “I certainly never did—er, before.”

Gerry shook his head. “Still.”

He wondered if he should tell Michael about his curious obliviousness to the Fear Entities prior to the Spiral taking him, but what good would it do? Gerry glanced up and caught Elias’s eye. Evidently they were having the same thought, because Elias very slightly shook his head no. So everyone back then knew, too.

“Can I try making another?” Michael asked, transferring his first bouquet to a vase.

Gerry smiled, shifting his focus away from Elias. Sooner or later they’d have to have a chat. “Sure, go for it. Experiment around with other flowers.” 

“Ooh, I _do_ love experimenting.”

Helen’s sudden interjection made Michael fumble and nearly drop a rose. As he snatched it out of the air with his other hand, he hissed in pain. Gerry was certain everything on the table had been de-thorned, but once the Distortion arrived on the scene nothing was certain anymore. Michael was bleeding, cut on a thorn that would likely be gone the moment Helen left. She chuckled as Michel stuck his cut finger in his mouth, the door to the Distortion’s hallways open behind her.

“Why are you here?” Gerry asked, more wary than anything. “And please don’t fuck around, we’ve already been through this before.”

“Yes, but not like _this,_ ” Helen said, flipping her hair like the star of a shampoo commercial. “I feel so unburdened now.”

“Fuck you, too,” Michael grumbled. 

“Oh, Michael,” Helen laughed, the sound threatening to break the glass vase on the table. “Don’t be cross. I could have destroyed you, after all.” All the good humor went out of her voice as suddenly as a switch flipping. “And I very easily still could.”

“Okay, enough!” Gerry glowered at Helen, feeling the power of Beholding itching to be used. Helen grinned at him, but there was an unease behind it. A staring contest of sorts wouldn’t end well for either of them. “Let’s just start over, okay?”

“Yes,” Helen agreed, stepping back through the threshold. “Let’s.”

The strange door set in the brick wall didn’t vanish when she closed it, instead Helen waited a beat and stepped back into the room. No surprise entrance this time, though the audience round of applause out of nowhere was a bit much.

“Hello, all,” she said as the cheers died away. “I thought I’d come and collect my flowers.”

“They’re not yours,” Michael snapped. “I’m the one who made the damn bouquet.”

“Ah, yes, about that!” Helen’s smile kept widening until it was curling in towards her spiraling eyes. “You also said it was to decorate _my_ halls. And if we start arguing who said what when what was who... well, it will quickly get very headache inducing for _someone_ here, I’m sure.”

Michael stared at Helen. Helen smiled at Michael. Michael slid the vase of flowers toward her without word, not breaking eye contact. Gerry wondered if it had any disorienting effect on him—given he was still touched by the Spiral. Probably not, but the fact Gerry couldn’t just Know such things said plenty.

“I’m glad we can agree,” Helen said brightly, cradling the vase in her arm

“I hope you choke on them.”

“Yes, yes. Love you, too.” Helen waved languidly as she stepped back through her door. “Oh, and Archivist?”

She just had to turn her neck a full 180 degrees as she remembered something, though Gerry doubted anything ever really slipped the Distortion’s twisted mind.

“Yes?”

Helen smiled, showing too many teeth. It was a lot like Michael as the Distortion, and yet Helen was distinctly different at the same time. There was the iridescent makeup that kept shifting colors, among everything else with her new features, all layered over the familiar flickering nightmare smile.

“Congratulations on the promotion,” she said. “I hope your new boss appreciates my _other_ little goodwill present.”

Gerry glanced to Michael, who looked equally confused.

“I don’t—”

But Helen was gone along with the door, along the fading echoes of her laughter remained. Confusion and worry over her motives were probably the point.

Elias let out a huge breath. “Fuck!”

Gerry had almost forgotten he was there.

“How the hell did you get tangled up with the Distortion, anyway?!” Elias demanded.

Gerry and Michael exchanged a look. Michael blushed. Gerry looked Elias dead in the eye and said, “It’s complicated.”

Gerry’s mobile rang before Elias could press the issue. Michael went back to messing around with the flowers scattered across the work table, only going for dark colored blossoms after Helen absconded with his first brightly colored creation. There was no trace of a cut left on his finger, Gerry noticed, but before he could so much as say hello Jon was talking.

“That police officer from before called,” he said, sounding breathless. 

“The one said she was quitting?”

“The very same,” Jon replied. “But she wanted to be the one to tell me I’m off the hook for Gertrude Robinson’s murder.”

“Wait,” Gerry said. He put his mobile on speaker. “I’m here with Elias and Michael. Can you repeat that?”

Jon did.

“But...” Elias trailed off, the color draining from his face. “I... I mean Magnus...”

“I know,” Jon said. “But here’s the thing: the man who walked in off the street and confessed to her murder, giving them an unnerving amount of detail regarding the tunnels and the murder weapon? Was Jurgen Leitner.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun dun!
> 
> I went back and reread this from the beginning and was like “gee, I hope the author updates soon” and then I found the half finished draft of this chapter from months ago. Funny how that goes.
> 
> Now that I remember where I was going with this I may update... well, we’ll see. I hesitate to say “soon.”

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has a life of its own and all I can do is go where it wants me to take it, so I apologize profusely if you expected a normal flower shop AU... though that was never in my vague “what if Gerry was the one Michael bought lilies from” plans, anyway.


End file.
